University of Virginia Library

A SERIES OF PLAYS: IN WHICH IT IS ATTEMPTED TO DELINEATE THE STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND EACH PASSION BEING THE SUBJECT OF A TRAGEDY AND A COMEDY.

BASIL:

A TRAGEDY.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. MEN

• Count Basil, a general in the Emperor's service.
• Count Rosinberg, his friend.
• Duke of Mantua.
• Gauriecio, his minister.
• Valtomer, officer of Basil's troops.
• Frederic, officer of Basil's troops.
• Geoffry, an old soldier very much maimed in the wars.
• Mirando, a little boy, a favourite of Victoria.

WOMEN

• Victoria, daughter to the Duke of Mantua.
• Countess of Albini, friend and governess to Victoria.
• Isabella, a lady attending upon Victoria.
• Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, &c

The Scene is in Mantua, and its environs. Time supposed to be the sixteenth century, when Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the First, at the battle of Pavia.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An open street, crowded with people, who seem to be waiting in expectation of some show.
Enter a Citizen.
First Man.
Well, friend, what tidings of the grand procession?

Cit.
I left it passing by the northern gate.

Second Man.
I've waited long, I'm glad it comes at last.

Young Man.
And does the princess look so wondrous fair
As fame reports?

Cit.
She is the fairest lady of the train,—
Yet all the fairest beauties of the court
Are in her train.

Old Man.
Bears she such off'rings to Saint Francis' shrine,
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says?
—'Twill drain the treasury!

Cit.
Since she, in all this splendid pomp returns
Her public thanks to the good patron Saint,
Who from his sick bed hath restor'd her father,
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands?
She loves magnificence.—

[Discovering amongst the crowd old
Geoffry.
Ha! art thou here, old remnant of the wars?
Thou art not come to see this courtly show,
Which sets the young agape?

Geof.
I came not for the show; and yet, methinks,
It were a better jest upon me still,
If thou didst truly know my errand here.

Cit.
I pri'thee say.

Geof.
What, must I tell it thee?
As o'er my evening fire I musing sat,
Some few days since, my mind's eye backward turn'd
Upon the various changes I have pass'd—
How in my youth with gay attire allur'd,
And all the grand accountrements of war,
I left my peaceful home: then my first battles,
When clashing arms, and sights of blood were new:
Then all the after chances of the war:
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was,
When with an arm (I speak not of it oft)
Which now (pointing to his empty sleeve)
thou seest is no arm of mine,
In a strait pass I stopp'd a thousand foes,
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge;
For which good service, in his tented court,
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me;
While his fair consort, seated by his side,
The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld,
Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd,—
Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile —
'Twas a heart-kindling smile, — a smile of praise —
Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past,
A neighbour drew the latchet of my door,
And full of news from town, in many words
Big with rich names, told of this grand procession;
E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul
To see the princess pass, if in her looks
I yet might trace some semblance of her mother.
This is the simple truth; laugh as thou wilt.
I came not for the show.

Enter an Officer.
Officer to Geof.
Make way that the procession may have room:
Stand you aside, and let this man have place.

[Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put another in his place.
Geof.
But that thou art the prince's officer,
I'd give thee back thy push with better blows.

Officer.
What, wilt thou not give place? the prince is near:
I will complain to him, and have thee caged.

Geof.
Yes, do complain, I pray; and when thou dost,
Say that the private of the tenth brigade,
Who sav'd his army on the Danube's bank,
And since that time a private hath remain'd,
Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain
Against thy insolence. Go tell him this,
And ask him then what dungeon of his tower
He'll have me thrust into.

Cit. to Officer.
This is old Geoffry of the tenth brigade.

Offi.
I knew him not: you should have told me sooner.

[Exit, looking much ashamed.
Martial music heard at a distance.
Cit.
Hark, this is music of a warlike kind.

Enter second Citizen.
Sec. Cit.
The brave Count Basil is upon his march,
To join the emperor with some chosen troops,
And doth as our ally through Mantua pass.

Geof.
I've heard a good report of this young soldier.

Sec. Cit.
'Tis said he disciplines his men severely
And over-much affects the old commander,
Which seems ungracious in so young a man.

Geof.
I know he loves not ease and revelry;
He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate
Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think,
That e'en the very meanest simple craft
Cannot without due diligence be learn'd,
And yet the nobler art of soldiership
May be attained by loit'ring in the sun?
Some men are born to feast and not to fight:
Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field
Still on their dinner turn —
Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home,
And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword.
In times of easy service, true it is,
An easy careless chief, all soldiers love;
But O how gladly in the day of battle
Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert,
And follow such a leader as Count Basil!
So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call,
Confess the master deer.

[Music is heard again, and nearer. Geof. walks up and down with a military triumphant step.
Cit.
What moves thee thus?

Geof.
I've march'd to this same tune in glorious days.
My very limbs catch motion from the sound,
As they were young again.

Sec. Cit.
But here they come.

Enter Count Basil, officers and soldiers in procession, with colours flying, and martial music. When they have marched half-way over the stage, an officer of the duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks to Basil, upon which he gives a sign with his hand, and the martial music ceases; soft music is heard at a little distance, and Victoria, with a long procession of ladies, enters from the opposite side. The General &c. pay obeisance to her, as she passes; she stops to return it, and then goes off with her train. After which the military procession moves on, and Exeunt.
Cit.
to Geof.
What thinkst thou of the princess?

Geof.
She is fair,
But not so fair as her good mother was.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A public walk on the ramparts of the town.
Enter Count Rosinberg, Valtomer, and Frederic. —Valtomer enters by the opposite side of the stage, and meets them.
Valt.
O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers!
Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare,
From every house salute you as you pass:
Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye;
Music and merriment in ev'ry street;
Whilst pretty damsels in their best attire,
Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind,
To spy the fools a-gazing after them.

Fred.
But short will be the season of our ease,
For Basil is of flinty matter made,
And cannot be allur'd —
'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us.
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble,
Some years his elder too — How has it been
That he should be prefer'd? I see not why.

Ros.
Ah! but I see it, and allow it well;
He is too much my pride to wake my envy.

Fred.
Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration
Which raises him to such superior height;
And truly thou hast so infected us,
That I at times have felt me aw'd before him,
I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this.
Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he.

Ros.
Our talents of a diff'rent nature are;
Mine for the daily intercourse of life,
And his for higher things.

Fred.
Well, praise him as thou wilt; I see it not;
I'm sure I am as brave a man as he.

Ros.
Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern brav'ry,
And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well,
Give and receive as deep a wound as he.
When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords;
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind,
O'erwatching all the changes of the field,
Calm and inventive 'midst the battle's storm,
Which makes his soldiers bold.—
There have been those, in early manhood slain,
Whose great heroic souls have yet inspir'd
With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops,
That to their latest day of bearing arms,
Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers brav'd
Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride,
As those who fought beneath them in their youth.
Such men have been; of whom it may be said,
Their spirits conquer'd when their clay was cold.

Valt.
Yes, I have seen in the eventful field,
When new occasion mock'd all rules of art,
E'en old commanders hold experience cheap,
And look to Basil ere his chin was dark.

Ros.
One fault he has; I know but only one;
His too great love of military fame
Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear
Unsocial and severe.

Fred.
Well, feel I not undaunted in the field?
As much enthusiastic love of glory?
Why am I not as good a man as he?

Ros.
He's form'd for great occasions, thou for small.

Valt.
But small occasions in the path of life
Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd.

Ros.
By which you would infer that men like Fred'ric
Should on the whole a better figure make,
Than men of higher parts. It is not so;
For some show well, and fair applauses gain,
Where want of skill in other men is graceful.
Pray do not frown, good Fred'ric, no offence:
Thou canst not make a great man of thyself;
Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs,
And prove an honour'd courtly gentleman.
But hush! no more of this; here Basil comes.

Enter Basil, who returns their salute without speaking.
Ros.
What thinkst thou, Valtomer, of Mantua's princess?

Valt.
Fame prais'd her much, but hath not prais'd her more
Than on a better proof the eye consents to.
With all that grace and nobleness of mien,
She might do honour to an emp'ror's throne;
She is too noble for a petty court.
Is it not so, my lord? —
(To Basil, who only bows assent).
Nay, she demeans herself with so much grace,
Such easy state, such gay magnificence,
She should be queen of revelry and show.

Fred.
She's charming as the goddess of delight.

Valt.
But after her, she most attracted me
Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last;
For, though Victoria is a lovely woman —

Fred.
Nay, it is treason but to call her woman;
She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd.
But on my life, since now we talk of worship,
She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts!
They sparkled so with gold and precious gems—
Their value must be great; some thousand crowns.

Ros.
I would not rate them at a price so mean;
The cup alone, with precious stones beset,
Would fetch a sum as great. That olive-branch
The princess bore herself, of fretted gold,
Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more,
Because she held it in so white a hand.

Bas.
(in a quick voice).
Mark'd you her hand? I did not see her hand.
And yet she wav'd it twice.

Ros.
It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not.

Valt.
I wish some painter's eye had view'd the group,
As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd;
He would have found wherewith t'enrich his art.

Ros.
I wish so too; for oft their fancied beauties
Have so much cold perfection in their parts,
'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood.
This is not truth, and doth not please so well
As the varieties of lib'ral nature,
Where ev'ry kind of beauty charms the eye;
Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent,
Ay, by the mass! and snub-nos'd beauties too.
'Faith, ev'ry woman hath some witching charm,
If that she be not proud, or captious.

Valt.
Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to freaks.

Ros.
Or giv'n to freaks! hold, hold, good Valtomer!
Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n.

Valt.
But I must leave you for an hour or so;
I mean to view the town.

Fred.
I'll go with thee.

Ros.
And so will I.

[Exeunt Valtomer, Frederic, and Rosinberg.
Re-enter Rosinberg.
Ros.
I have repented me, I will not go;
They will be too long absent. —
(Pauses, and looks at Basil, who remains still musing without seeing him).
What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend?

Bas.
O it is admirable!

Ros.
How runs thy fancy? what is admirable?

Bas.
Her form, her face, her motion, ev'rything!

Ros.
The princess; yes, have we not prais'd her much?

Bas.
I know you prais'd her, and her off'rings too!
She might have giv'n the treasures of the East,
Ere I had known it.
O! didst thou mark her when she first appear'd,
Still distant, slowly moving with her train;
Her robe and tresses floating on the wind,
Like some light figure in a morning cloud?
Then, as she onward to the eye became
The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew!
That graceful bearing of her slender form;
Her roundly spreading breast, her tow'ring neck,
Her face ting'd sweetly with the bloom of youth—
But when approaching near, she tow'rds us turn'd,
Kind mercy! what a countenance was there!
And when to our salute she gently bow'd,
Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips?
Soft swell'd her glowing cheek, her eyes smil'd too,
O how they smil'd! 'twas like the beams of heav'n!
I felt my roused soul within me start,
Like something wak'd from sleep.

Ros.
The beams of heav'n do many slumb'rers wake
To care and misery!

Bas.
There's something grave and solemn in your voice.
As you pronounce these words. What dost thou mean?
Thou wouldst not sound my knell?

Ros.
No, not for all beneath the vaulted sky!
But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips,
Her praise displeases me. To men like you,
If love should come, he proves no easy guest.

Bas.
What, dost thou think 1 am beside myself,
And cannot view the fairness of perfection
With that delight which lovely beauty gives,
Without tormenting me by fruitless wishes,
Like the poor child who sees its brighten'd face,
And whimpers for the moon! Thou art not serious.
From early youth, war has my mistress been,
And tho' a rugged one, I'll constant prove,
And not forsake her now. There may be joys
Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul,
Visit the lover's breast beyond all others;
E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may!
But what of them? they are not made for me—
The hasty flashes of contending steel
Must serve instead of glances from my love,
And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roar.

Ros.
(taking his hand).
Now am I satisfied. Forgive me, Basil.

Bas.
I'm glad thou art; we'll talk of her no more;
Why should I vex my friend?

Ros.
Thou hast not issued orders for the march.

Bas.
I'll do it soon; thou needst not be afraid.
To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence,
Never perhaps to pass these gates again.

Ros.
With last night's close, did you not curse this town
That would one single day your troops retard:
And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it,
As though it were the place that gave you birth;
As though you had around these strangers' walls
Your infant gambols play'd.

Bas.
The sight of what may be but little priz'd,
Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind,
When view'd as that we ne'er shall see again.

Ros.
No, not a whit to wandering men like us.
No, not a whit! What custom hath endear'd
We part with sadly, though we prize it not:
But what is new some powerful charm must own,
Thus to affect the mind.

Bas.
(hastily).
We'll let it pass — It hath no consequence:
Thou art impatient.

Ros.
I'm not impatient. 'Faith, I only wish
Some other route our destin'd march had been,
That still thou mightst thy glorious course pursue
With an untroubled mind.

Bas.
O! wish it, wish it not! bless'd be that route!
What we have seen to-day, I must remember —
I should be brutish if I could forget it.
Oft in the watchful post, or weary march,
Oft in the nightly silence of my tent,
My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still;
But it will pass before my fancy's eye,
Like some delightful vision of the soul,
To soothe, not trouble it.

Ros.
What! 'midst the dangers of eventful war,
Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman?
Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in battle,
As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Calabria,
And never stop to cry “alack a-day!”
For me there is but one of all the sex,
Who still shall hold her station in my breast,
'Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune;
Because I'm passing sure she loves me well,
And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds
When rumour tells bad tidings of the war;
Because I know her love will never change,
Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy.

Bas.
Happy art thou! who is this wondrous woman?

Ros.
It is my own good mother, faith and truth?

Bas.
(smiling).
Give me thy hand; I love her dearly too.
Rivals we are not, though our love is one.

Ros.
And yet I might be jealous of her love,
For she bestows too much of it on thee,
Who hast no claim but to a nephew's share.

Bas.
(going).
I'll meet thee some time hence. I must to court.

Ros.
A private conference will not stay thee long.
I'll wait thy coming near the palace gate.

Bas.
'Tis to the public court I mean to go.

Ros.
I thought you had determin'd otherwise.

Bas.
Yes, but on further thought it did appear
As though it would be failing in respect
At such a time — That look doth wrong me, Rosinberg!
For on my life, I had determin'd thus,
Ere I beheld — Before we enter'd Mantua.
But wilt thou change that soldier's dusty garb,
And go with me thyself?

Ros.
Yes, I will go.

[As they are going Ros. stops and looks at Basil.
Bas.
Why dost thou stop?

Ros.
'Tis for my wonted caution,
Which first thou gav'st me — I shall ne'er forget it!
'Twas at Vienna, on a public-day;
Thou but a youth, I then a man full form'd;
Thy stripling's brow grac'd with its first cockade,
Thy mighty bosom swell'd with mighty thoughts.
Thou'rt for the court, dear Rosinberg, quoth thou!
“Now pray thee be not caught with some gay dame,
To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself:
It is offensive in the public eye,
And suits not with a man of thy endowments.”
So said your serious lordship to me, then,
And have on like occasions, often since,
In other terms repeated. —
But I must go to-day without my caution.

Bas.
Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now:
Did I not say we'd talk of her no more?

Ros.
Well, my good friend, God grant we keep our word!

(Exeunt).

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A room of state. The Duke of Mantua, Basil Rosinberg, and a number of Courtiers, Attendants, &c. The Duke and Basil appear talking together on the front of the stage.
Duke.
But our opinions differ widely there;
From the position of the rival armies,
I cannot think they'll join in battle soon.

Bas.
I am indeed beholden to your highness,
But though unwillingly, we must depart.
The foes are near, the time is critical;
A soldier's reputation is too fine,
To be expos'd e'en to the smallest cloud.

Duke.
An untried soldier's is; but yours, my lord,
Nurs'd with the bloody show'rs of many a field,
And brightest sunshine of successful fortune,
A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown,
E'en envy's sharpest blasts assail it not.
Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross!
I feel too warm an interest in the cause
To stay your progress here a single hour,
Did I not know your soldiers are fatigu'd,
And two days' rest would much recruit their strenght.

Bas.
Your highness will be pleas'd to pardon me;
My troops are not o'ermarch'd, and one day's rest
Is all our needs require.

Duke.
Ah! hadst thou come
Unfetter'd with the duties of command,
I then had well retain'd thee for my guest,
With claims too strong, too sacred for denial.
Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was;
Together many a rough campaign we serv'd;
I lov'd him well, and much it pleases me
A son of his beneath my roof to see.

Bas.
Were I indeed free master of myself,
Strong inclination would detain me here;
No other tie were wanting.
These gracious tokens of your princely favour
I'll treasure with my best remembrances;
For he who shows them for my father's sake,
Does something sacred in his kindness bear,
As though he shed a blessing on my head.

Duke.
Well, bear my greetings to the brave Pescara,
And say how warmly I embrace the cause.
Your third day's march will to his presence bring
Your valiant troops: said you not so, my lord?

Enter Victoria, the Countess of Albini, Isabella, and Ladies.
Bas.
(who changes countenance upon seeing them).
Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well—
Yes, please your grace, we march by break of day.

Duke.
Nay, that I know. I ask'd you, noble count,
When you expect to join th' imperial force.

Bas.
When it shall please your grace—I crave your pardon—
I somewhat have mistaken of your words.

Duke.
You are not well? your colour changes, count.
What is the matter?

Bas.
A dizzy mist that swims before my sight—
A ringing in my ears—'tis strange enough—
'Tis slight — 'tis nothing worth — 'tis gone already.

Duke.
I'm glad it is. Look to your friend, Count Rosinberg,
It may return again —

(To Rosinberg, who stands at a little distance, looking earnestly at Basil — Duke leaves them and joins Victoria 's party).
Ros.
Good heavens, Basil, is it thus with thee!
Thy hand shakes too: (taking his hand).
Would we were far from hence!

Bas.
I'm well again, thou needst not be afraid.
'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd
With some slight weakness from our weary march.
Nay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly—
I cannot bear thine eyes.

The Duke, with Victoria and her ladies, advances to the front of the stage to Basil.
Duke.
Victoria, welcome here the brave Count Basil;
His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg.
May you, and these fair ladies so prevail,
Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain,
To make them grace my court another day.
I shall not be offended when I see
Your power surpasses mine.

Vict.
Our feeble efforts will presumptuous seem,
Attempting that in which your highness fails.

Duke.
There's honour in th' attempt; success attend ye! —

(Duke retires, and mixes with the courtiers at the bottom of the stage).
Vict.
I fear we incommoded you, my lord,
With the slow tedious length of our procession.
E'en as I pass'd, it went against my heart,
To stop so long upon their tedious way
Your weary troops.—

Bas.
Ah! madam, all too short!
Time never bears such moments on his wing,
But when he flies too swiftly to be mark'd.

Vict.
Ah! surely then you make too good amends
By marking now his after-progress well.
To-day must seem a weary length to him
Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow.

Ros.
They must not linger who would quit these walls;
For if they do, a thousand masked foes;
Some under show of rich luxurious feasts,
Gay, sprightly pastime, and high-zested game;—
Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is,
The very worst and fellest of the crew,
In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames,
Do such a barrier form t' oppose their way,
As few men may o'ercome.

Isab.
From this last wicked foe should we infer
Yourself have suffer'd much?

Albin.
No, Isabella, these are common words,
To please you with false notions of your pow'r.
So all men talk of ladies and of love.

Vict.
'Tis even so. If Love a tyrant be,
How dare his humble chained votaries
To tell such rude and wicked tales of him?

Bas.
Because they most of lover's ills complain,
Who but affect it as a courtly grace,
Whilst he who feels is silent.

Ros.
But there you wrong me; I have felt it oft.
Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet,
Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl.

Albin.
In all its strange effects, most worthy Rosinberg,
Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit,
Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue?

Ros.
No, 'faith, it never has.

Albin.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! then thou hast never lov'd.

Ros.
Nay, but I have, and felt love's bondage too.

Vict.
Fye! it is pedantry to call it bondage!
Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars,
Deserve, methinks, that appellation more.
Is it not so, my lord? —

(To Basil.)
Bas.
O surely, madam!
That is not bondage which the soul enthrall'd
So gladly bears, and quits not but with anguish.
Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men,
These are the fetters that enchain the mind,
But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd.

Vict.
No, not unloos'd, but yet one day relax'd,
To grant a lady's suit unus'd to sue.

Ros.
Your highness deals severely with us now,
And proves indeed our freedom is but small,
Who are constrain'd, when such a lady sues,
To say it cannot be.

Vict.
It cannot be! Count Basil says not so.

Ros.
For that I am his friend, to save him pain
I take th' ungracious office on myself.

Vict.
How ill thy face is suited to thine office!

Ros.
(smiling).
Would I could suit mine office to my face,
If that would please your highness.

Vict.
No, you are obstinate and perverse all,
And would not grant it if you had the pow'r.
Albini, I'll retire; come, Isabella.

Bas.
(aside to Ros.)
Ah, Rosinberg! thou hast too far presum'd;
She is offended with us.

Ros.
No, she is not—
What dost thou fear? be firm, and let us go.

Vict.
(pointing to a door leading to other apartments, by which she is ready to go out).
These are apartments strangers love to see:
Some famous paintings do their walls adorn:
They lead you also to the palace court
As quickly as the way by which you came.

[Exit Vict. led out by Ros., and followed by Isab.
Bas.
(aside, looking after them).
O! what a fool am I! where fled my thoughts?
I might as well as he, now, by her side,
Have held her precious hand enclos'd in mine.
As well as he, who cares not for it neither.
O but he does! that were impossible!

Albin.
You stay behind, my lord.

Bas.
Your pardon, madam; honour me so far —

[Exeunt, Basil handing out Albini.

SCENE II.

A gallery hung with pictures. Victoria discovered in conversation with Rosinberg, Basil, Albini, and Isabella.
Vict.
(to Ros.)
It is indeed a work of wondrous art.
(To Isab.)
You call'd Francisco here?

Isab.
He comes even now.

Enter Attendant.
Vict.
(to Ros.)
He will conduct you to the northern gall'ry;
Its striking shades will call upon the eye,
To point its place there needs no other guide.

[Exeunt Ros. and Attendant.
Bas.
Ah! do not banish me these few short moments:
Too soon they will be gone! for ever gone!

Vict.
If they are precious to you, say not so,
But add to them another precious day.
A lady asks it.

Bas.
Ah, madam! ask the life-blood from my heart!
Ask all but what a soldier may not give.

Vict.
'Tis ever thus when favours are denied;
All had been granted but the thing we beg;
And still some great unlikely substitute,
Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good,
Is proffer'd in the room of one small boon.
So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, valiant lord,
And may it long your noble heart enrich,
Until I wish it shed.
(Bas. attempts to speak).
Nay, frame no new excuse;
I will not hear it.

[She puts out her hand as if she would shut his mouth, but at a distance from it; Bas. runs eagerly up to her, and presses it to his lips.
Bas.
Let this sweet hand indeed its threat perform,
And make it heav'n to be for ever dumb!
(Vict. looks stately and offended — Basil kneels.)
O pardon me! I know not what I do.
Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness;
But only grant —

Vict.
What should I grant to him,
Who has so oft my earnest suit denied?

Vict.
(raising him).
Well, Basil, this good promise is thy pardon.
I will not wait your noble friend's return,
Since we shall meet again.—
You will perform your word?

Bas.
I will perform it.

Vict.
Farewell, my lord.

[Exit, with her ladies.
Bas.
(alone).
“Farewell, my lord.” O! what delightful sweetness!
The music of that voice dwells on the ear!
“Farewell, my lord!”—Ay, and then look'd she so—
The slightest glance of her bewitching eye,
Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost soul.
Well, there is yet one day of life before me,
And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it.
Though but a partial sunshine in my lot,
I will converse with her, gaze on her still,
If all behind were pain and misery.
Pain! Were it not the easing of all pain,
E'en in the dismal gloom of after years,
Such dear remembrance on the mind to wear,
Like silv'ry moon-beams on the 'nighted deep,
When heav'n's blest sun is gone?
Kind mercy! how my heart within me beat
When she so sweetly pled the cause of love!
Can she have lov'd? why shrink I at the thought?
Why should she not? no, no, it cannot be—
No man on earth is worthy of her love.
Ah! if she could, how blest a man were he!
Where rove my giddy thoughts? it must not be.
Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear;
Think of him oft, his absent fate inquire,
And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall.
Yes, she would mourn — such love might she bestow;
And poor of soul the man who would exchange it
For warmest love of the most loving dame!
But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well?
He will not say I have.

Enter Rosinberg.
Ros.
Where is the princess?
I'm sorry I return'd not ere she went.

Bas.
You'll see her still.

Ros.
What, comes she forth again?

Bas.
She does to-morrow.

Ros.
Thou hast yielded then.

Bas.
Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go:
It was impossible I should not yield.

Ros.
O Basil! thou art weaker than a child.

Bas.
Yes, yes, my friend, but 'tis a noble weakness,
A weakness which hath greater things achiev'd
Than all the firm determin'd strength of reason.
By heav'n! I feel a new-born pow'r within me,
Shall make me twenty-fold the man I've been
Before this fated day.

Ros.
Fated indeed! but an ill-fated day,
That makes thee other than thy former self.
Yet let it work its will; it cannot change thee
To aught I shall not love.

Bas.
Thanks, Rosinberg! thou art a noble heart.
I would not be the man thou couldst not love
For an imperial crown.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A small apartment in the palace.
Enter Duke and Gauriecio.
Duke.
The point is gain'd; my daughter is successful;
And Basil is detain'd another day.

Gaur.
But does the princess know your secret aim?

Duke.
No, that had marr'd the whole; she is a woman—
Her mind, as suits the sex, too weak and narrow
To relish deep-laid schemes of policy.
Besides, so far unlike a child of mine,
She holds its subtle arts in high derision,
And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes.
Gauriecio, could I trusty servants find,
Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrain'd
By silly superstitious child-learnt fears,
What might I not effect?

Gaur.
O any thing!
The deep and piercing genius of your highness,
So ably serv'd, might e'en achieve the empire.

Duke.
No, no, my friend, thou dost o'erprize my parts;
Yet mighty things might be—deep subtle wits,
In truth, are master spirits in the world.
The brave man's courage, and the student's lore,
Are but as tools his secret ends to work,
Who hath the skill to use them.
This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him well?
Much have we gain'd, but for a single day,
At such a time, to hold his troops detain'd;
When, by that secret message of our spy,
The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action:
But might we more effect? Knowst thou this Basil?
Might he be tamper'd with?

Gaur.
That were most dang'rous.—
He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong
To such a high romantic pitch is wound,
And all so hot and fiery in his nature,
The slightest hint, as though you did suppose
Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it,
Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy.

Duke.
But int'rest, int'rest, man's all-ruling pow'r,
Will tame the hottest spirit to your service,
And skilfully applied, mean service too;
E'en as there is an element in nature
Which, when subdu'd, will on your hearth fulfil
The lowest uses of domestic wants.

Gaur.
Earth-kindled fire, which from a little spark,
On hidden fuel feeds its growing strength,
Till o'er the lofty fabric it aspires
And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd,
And in your base domestic service bound;
But who would madly in its wild career
The fire of heav'n arrest to boil his pot?
No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes,
Though you had all to give ambition strives for.
We must beware of him.

Duke.
His father was my friend, — I wish'd to gain him:
But since fantastic fancies bind him thus,
The sin be on his head; I stand acquitted,
And must deceive him, even to his ruin.

Gaur.
I have prepar'd Bernardo for your service;
To-night he will depart for th' Austrain camp,
And should he find them on the eve of battle,
I've bid him wait the issue of the field.
If that our secret friends victorious prove,
With the arrow's speed he will return again:
But should fair Fortune crown Pescara's arms,
Then shall your soothing message greet his ears;
For till our friends some sound advantage gain,
Our actions still must wear an Austrian face.

Duke.
Well hast thou school'd him. Didst thou add withal,
That 'tis my will he garnish well his speech,
With honied words of the most dear regard,
And friendly love I bear him? This is needful;
And lest my slowness in the promis'd aid
Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse
The many favours on my house bestow'd
By his imperial master, as a theme
On which my gratitude delights to dwell.

Gaur.
I have, an' please your highness.

Duke.
Then 'tis well.

Gaur.
But for the yielding up that little fort
There could be no suspicion.

Duke.
My Governor I have severely punish'd,
As a most daring traitor to my orders.
He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell;
Why then should they suspect?

Gaur.
He must not live, should Charles prove victorious.

Duke.
He's done me service; say not so, Gauriecio.

Gaur.
A traitor's name he will not calmly bear;
He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live.

Duke.
Well, if it must — we'll talk of this again.

Gaur.
But while with anxious care and crafty wiles
You would enlarge the limits of your state,
Your highness must beware lest inward broils
Bring danger near at hand: your northern subjects
E'en now are discontented and unquiet.

Duke.
What, dare the ungrateful miscreants thus return
The many favours of my princely grace?
'Tis ever thus; indulgence spoils the base;
Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence,
Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh
When morning shines upon it.—
Did I not lately with parental care,
When dire invaders their destruction threaten'd,
Provide them all with means of their defence?
Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust,
A body of their vagrant youth select
To guard my sacred person? till that day
An honour never yet allow'd their race.
Did I not suffer them, upon their suit,
T' establish manufactures in their towns?
And after all some chosen soldiers spare
To guard the blessings of interior peace?

Gaur.
Nay, please your highness, they do well allow,
That when your enemies, in fell revenge,
Your former inroads threaten'd to repay,
Their ancient arms you did to them restore,
With kind permission to defend themselves:
That so far have they felt your princely grace,
In drafting from their fields their goodliest youth
To be your servants: that you did vouchsafe,
On paying of a large and heavy fine,
Leave to apply the labour of their hands
As best might profit to the country's weal:
And to encourage well their infant trade,
Quarter'd your troops upon them. — Please your grace,
All this they do most readily allow.

Duke.
They do allow it, then, ungrateful varlets!
What would they have? what would they have, Gauriecio?

Gaur.
Some mitigation of their grievous burdens,
Which, like an iron weight around their necks,
Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth,
Like creatures form'd upon its soil to creep,
Not stand erect and view the sun of heav'n.

Duke.
But they beyond their proper sphere would rise;
Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours.
Society of various parts is form'd;
They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment,
And we the mantling top which crowns the whole.
Calm, steady labour is their greatest bliss;
To aim at higher things beseems them not.
To let them work in peace my care shall be;
To slacken labour is to nourish pride.
Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools:
What may this mean, Gauriecio?

Gaur.
They were resolv'd to lay their cause before you,
And would have found some other advocate
Less pleasing to your Grace, had I refus'd

Duke.
Well, let them know, some more convenient season
I'll think of this, and do for them as much
As suits the honour of my princely state.
Their prince's honour should be ever dear
To worthy subjects as their precious lives.

Gaur.
I fear, unless you give some special promise,
They will be violent still —

Duke.
Then do it, if the wretches are so bold,
We can retract it when the times allow;
'Tis of small consequence. Go see Bernardo,
And come to me again.

Gaur.
(solus).
O happy people! whose indulgent lord Exit.
From ev'ry care, with which increasing wealth,
With all its hopes and fears, doth ever move
The human breast, most graciously would free,
And kindly leave you nought to do but toil!
This creature now, with all his reptile cunning,
Writhing and turning through a maze of wiles,
Believes his genius form'd to rule mankind;
And call his sordid wish for territory
That noblest passion of the soul, ambition.
Born had he been to follow some low trade,
A petty tradesman still he had remain'd,
And us'd the art with which he rules a state
To circumvent his brothers of the craft,
Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware.
And yet he thinks — ha, ha, ha, ha! — he thinks
I am the tool and servant of his will.
Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble
His plots and base oppression must create,
I'll shape myself away to higher things:
And who will say 'tis wrong?
A sordid being, who expects no faith
But as self-interest binds; who would not trust
The strongest ties of nature on the soul,
Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate!
Were I like him, I would despise this dealing:
But being as I am, born low in fortune,
Yet with a mind aspiring to be great,
I must not scorn the steps which lead to it:
And if they are not right, no saint am I:
I follow nature's passion in my breast,
Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

An apartment in the palace. Victoria and Isabella are discovered playing at chess; the Countess Albini sitting by them reading to herself.
Vict.
Away with it, I will not play again.
May men no more be foolish in my presence
If thou art not a cheat, an arrant cheat!

Isab.
To swear that I am false by such an oath,
Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture
Would bring your highness gain.

Vict.
Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple maid;
For in the very forfeit of this oath,
There's death to all the dearest pride of women.
May man no more be foolish in my presence!

Isab.
And does your grace, hail'd by applauding crowds,
In all the graceful eloquence address'd
Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths,
Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards,
Those awkward proofs of admiration prize,
Which rustic swains their village fair ones pay?

Vict.
O, love will master all the power of art!
Ay, all! and she who never has beheld
The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage,
Before the glances of her conquering eye
A very native simple swain become,
Has only vulgar charms.
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude,
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul;
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth,
And lead him forth as a domestic cur,
These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty!
Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise,
Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service,
Attend her presence, it were nothing worth:
I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks,
And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame.

Alb.
(raising her head from her book).
And is, indeed, a plain domestic dame,
Who fills the duties of an useful state,
A being of less dignity than she,
Who vainly on her transient beauty builds,
A little poor ideal tyranny?

Isab.
Ideal too!

Alb.
Yes, most unreal pow'r:
For she who only finds her self-esteem
In others' admiration, begs an alms;
Depends on others for her daily food,
And is the very servant of her slaves;
Though oftentimes, in a fantastic hour,
O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert,
Which not ennobles, but degrades her state.

Vict.
You are severe, Albini, most severe:
Were human passions plac'd within the breast
But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots?
All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n.

Alb.
Yes, for a noble, for a generous end.

Vict.
Am I ungen'rous then?

Alb.
Yes, most ungen'rous!
Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r,
Would give most unavailing pain to those
Whose love you ne'er can recompense again.
E'en now, to-day, O! was it not ungen'rous
To fetter Basil with a foolish tie,
Against his will, perhaps against his duty?

Vict.
What, dost thou think against his will, my friend?

Alb.
Full sure I am against his reason's will.

Vict.
Ah! but indeed thou must excuse me here;
For duller than a shelled crab were she,
Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind,
And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd.
But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me?
Ah! well I read those looks! methinks they say,
“Your mother did not so.”

Alb.
Your highness reads them true, she did not so.
If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts,
She kept it low, withheld its aliment;
Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motley food,
From the fond tribute of a noble heart
To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child.

Vict.
Nay, speak not thus, Albini, speak not thus
Of little blue-eyed, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando.
He is the orphan of a hapless pair,
A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair,
Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad,
The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay,
And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep.
Besides, (to Isab.
) I am the guardian of his choice.
When first I saw him — dost thou not remember?

Isab.
'Twas in the public garden.

Vict.
Even so;
Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a rustic quean,
Ill suited to the lovely charge she bore.
How stedfastly he fix'd his looks upon me,
His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears,
Then stretch'd his little arms and call'd me mother!
What could I do? I took the bantling home—
I could not tell the imp he had no mother.

Alb.
Ah! there, my child, thou hast indeed no blame.

Vict.
Now this is kindly said: thanks, sweet Albini!
Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt.
O! would that I were such as thou couldst love!
Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother!

Alb.
(pressing her to her breast).
And do I not? all-perfect as she was,
I know not that she went so near my heart
As thou with all thy faults.

Vict.
And sayst thou so? would I had sooner known!
I had done any thing to give thee pleasure.

Alb.
Then do so now, and put thy faults away.

Vict.
No, say not faults; the freaks of thoughtless youth.

Alb.
Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd.

Vict.
O! say but foibles! youthful foibles only!

Alb.
Faults, faults, real faults you must confess they are.

Vict.
In truth I cannot do your sense the wrong
To think so poorly of the one you love.

Alb.
I must be gone: thou hast o'ercome me now:
Another time I will not yield it so.

[Exit.
Isab.
The countess is severe, she's too severe:
She once was young though now advanc'd in years.

Vict.
No, I deserve it all: she is most worthy.
Unlike those faded beauties of the court,
But now the wither'd stems of former flowers
With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind
Procures to her the privilege of man,
Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays.
Some few years hence, if I should live so long,
I'd be Albini rather than myself.

Isab.
Here comes your little fav'rite.

Vict.
I am not in the humour for him now.

Enter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no notice of him, as he holds up his mouth to be kissed.
Isab.
(to Mir.)
Thou seest the princess can't be troubled with thee.

Mir.
O but she will! I'll scramble up her robe,
As naughty boys do when they climb for apples.

Isab.
Come here, sweet child; I'll kiss thee in her stead.

Mir.
Nay, but I will not have a kiss of thee.
Would I were tall! O were I but so tall!

Isab.
And how tall wouldst thou be?

Mir.
Thou dost not know?
Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips.

Vict.
(embracing him).
O! I must bend to this, thou little urchin!
Who taught thee all this wit, this childish wit?
Whom does Mirando love?

[Embraces him again.
Mir.
He loves Victoria.

Vict.
And wherefore loves he her?

Mir.
Because she's pretty.

Isab.
Hast thou no little prate to-day, Mirando?
No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal?

Mir.
Ay, that I have: I know who loves her grace.

Vict.
Who is it, pray? thou shalt have comfits for it.

Mir.
(looking slily at her).
It is — it is — it is the Count of Maldo.

Vict.
Away, thou little chit! that tale is old,
And was not worth a sugar-plum when new.

Mir.
Well then, I know who loves her highness well.

Vict.
Who is it then?

Isab.
Who is it, naughty boy?

Mir.
It is the handsome Marquis of Carlatzi.

Vict.
No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still:
Twice have I paid thee for that tale already.

Mir.
Well then, indeed — I know who loves Victoria.

Vict.
And who is he?

Mir.
It is Mirando's self.

Vict.
Thou little imp! this story is not new,
But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go.
Go, run before us, boy.

Mir.
Nay, but I'll show you how Count Wolvar look'd,
When he conducted Isabel from court.

Vict.
How did he look?

Mir.
Give me your hand: he held his body thus:
(putting himself in a ridiculous bowing posture).
And then he whisper'd softly; then look'd so;
(ogling with his eyes affectedly).
Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again.

(throwing down his eyes affectedly).
Isab.
Thou art a little knave, and must be whipp'd.

[Exeunt, Mirando leading out Victoria affectedly.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An open street, or square.
Enter Rosinberg and Frederic, by opposite sides of the stage.
Fred.
So Basil, from the pressing calls of war,
Another day to rest and pastime gives.
How is it now? methinks thou art not pleas'd.

Ros.
It matters little if I am or not.

Fred.
Now pray thee do confess thou art asham'd:
Thou, who art wisely wont to set at naught
The noble fire of individual courage,
And call calm prudence the superior virtue,
What sayst thou now, my candid Rosinberg,
When thy great captain, in a time like this,
Denies his weary troops one day of rest
Before the exertions of approaching battle,
Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit?

Ros.
Who told thee this? it was no friendly tale;
And no one else, besides a trusty friend,
Could know his motives. Then thou wrongst me too;
For I admire, as much as thou dost, Fred'ric,
The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour;
But not, like thee, do I depreciate
That far superior, yea that god-like talent,
Which doth direct that fire, because indeed
It is a talent nature has denied me.

Fred.
Well, well, and greatly he may boast his virtue,
Who risks perhaps th' imperial army's fate,
To please a lady's freaks—

Ros.
Go, go, thou'rt prejudic'd:
A passion which I do not choose to name
Has warp'd thy judgment.

Fred.
No, by heav'n, thou wrongst me!
I do, with most enthusiastic warmth,
True valour love: wherever he is found,
I love the hero too; but hate to see
The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd.

Ros.
Then mayst thou now these gen'rous feelings prove.
Behold that man, whose short and grizzly hair
In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'ershades;
Where now the scars of former sabre wounds,
In hon'rable companionship are seen
With the deep lines of age; whose piercing eye
Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly darts
Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age
Its youthful fire had been again renew'd,
To be the guardian of its darken'd mate.
See with what vig'rous steps his upright form
He onward bears; nay, e'en that vacant sleeve,
Which droops so sadly by his better side,
Suits not ungracefully the vet'ran's mien.
This is the man, whose glorious acts in battle,
We heard to-day related o'er our wine.
I go to tell the gen'ral he is come:
Enjoy the gen'rous feelings of thy breast,
And make an old man happy.

[Exit.
Enter Geoffry.
Fred.
Brave soldier, let me profit by the chance
That led me here; I've heard of thy exploits.

Geof.
Ah! then you have but heard an ancient tale.
Which has been long forgotten.

Fred.
But it is true, and should not be forgotten;
Though gen'rals, jealous of their soldiers' fame,
May dash it with neglect.

Geof.
There are, perhaps, who may be so ungen'rous.

Fred.
Perhaps, sayst thou? in very truth there are.
How art thou else rewarded with neglect,
Whilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps
Has been promoted? It is ever thus.
Serv'd not Mardini in your company?
He was, though honour'd with a valiant name,
To those who knew him well, a paltry soldier.

Geof.
Your pardon, sir, we did esteem him much,
Although inferior to his gallant friend,
The brave Sebastian.

Fred.
The brave Sebastian!
He was, as I am told, a learned coxcomb,
And lov'd a goose-quill better than a sword.
What, dost thou call him brave?
Thou, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk,
Like an old target, hack'd and rough with wounds,
Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he
Was with a smooth skin in his coffin laid,
Unblemish'd with a scar.

Geof.
His duty call'd not to such desp'rate service.
For I have fought where few alive remain'd,
And none unscath'd; where but a few remain'd,
Thus marr'd and mangled; (showing his wounds)
As belike you've seen,
O' summer nights, around the evening lamp,
Some wretched moths, wingless, and half consum'd,
Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead.—
In Savoy, on a small, though desp'rate post,
Of full three hundred goodly chosen men,
But twelve were left, and right dear friends were we
For ever after. They are all dead now:
I'm old and lonely.—We were valiant hearts—
Fred'ric Dewalter would have stopp'd a breach
Against the devil himself. I'm lonely now!

Fred.
I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrateful chiefs!
Why wert thou not promoted?

Geof.
After that battle, where my happy fate
Had led me to fulfil a glorious part,
Chaf'd with the gibing insults of a slave,
The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'rite,
I rashly did affront; our cautious prince,
With narrow policy dependant made,
Dar'd not, as I am told, promote me then,
And now he is asham'd, or has forgot it.

Fred.
Fye, fye upon it! let him be asham'd!
Here is a trifle for thee—

(offering him money.)
Geof.
No, good sir,
I have enough to live as poor men do.
When I'm in want I'll thankfully receive,
Because I'm poor, but not because I'm brave.

Fred.
You're proud, old soldier.

Geof.
No, I am not proud;
For if I were, methinks I'd be morose,
And willing to depreciate other men.

Enter Rosinberg.
Ros.
(clapping Geof. on the shoulder).
How goes it with thee now, my good field-marshal?

Geof.
The better that I see your honour well,
And in the humour to be merry with me.

Ros.
Faith, by my sword, I've rightly nam'd thee too:
What is a good field-marshal, but a man,
Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind,
Doth marshal others on in glory's way?
Thou art not one by princely favour dubb'd,
But one of nature's making.

Geof.
You show, my lord, such pleasant courtesy,
I know not how—

Ros.
But see, the gen'ral comes.

Enter Basil.
Ros.
(pointing to Geoffry).
Behold the worthy vet'ran.

Bas.
(taking him by the hand).
Brave honourable man, your worth I know,
And greet it with a brother soldier's love.

Geof.
(taking away his hand in confusion).
My gen'ral, this is too much, too much honour.

Bas.
(taking his hand again).
No, valiant soldier, I must have it so.

Geof.
My humble state agrees not with such honour.

Bas.
Think not of it, thy state is not thyself.
Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee,
As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal,
O'erlooks the gaint: 'tis not worth a thought.
Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade,
Whose warlike feats child, maid, and matron know,
And oft, cross-elbow'd, o'er his nightly bowl,
The jolly toper to his comrade tells;
Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door,
The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand
The many movements of the varied field,
In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates;
Whose bosoms glowing at the wondrous tale,
First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life?
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be
The man thou art, than court-created chief,
Known only by the dates of his promotion.

Geof.
Ah! would I were, would I were young again,
To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral!
Methinks what I have done were but a jest,
Ay, but a jest to what I now should do,
Were I again the man that I have been.
O! I could fight!

Bas.
And wouldst thou fight for me?

Geof.
Ay, to the death!

Bas.
Then come, brave man, and be my champion still:
The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts.
Come, noble vet'ran, thou shalt fight for me.

[Exit with Geoffry.
Fred.
What does he mean to do?

Ros.
We'll know ere long.

Fred.
Our gen'ral bears it with a careless face,
For one so wise.

Ros.
A careless face! on what?

Fred.
Now, feign not ignorance, we know it all.
News which have spread in whispers from the court,
Since last night's messenger arriv'd from Milan.

Ros.
As I'm an honest man, I know it not!

Fred.
'Tis said the rival armies are so near,
A battle must immediately ensue.

Ros.
It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not.
The Duke is of our side a sworn ally,
And had such messenger to Mantua come,
He would have been appriz'd upon the instant.
It cannot be; it is some idle tale.

Fred.
So may it prove till we have joined them too,
Then heaven grant they may be nearer still!
For O! my soul for war and danger pants,
As doth the noble lion for his prey.
My soul delights in battle.

Ros.
Upon my simple word, I'd rather see
A score of friendly fellows shaking hands,
Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear?

Fred.
What dost thou mean?

Ros.
Hast thou no fear of death?

Fred.
Fear is a name for something in the mind,
But what, from inward sense, I cannot tell.
I could as little anxious march to battle,
As when a boy to childish games I ran.

Ros.
Then as much virtue hast thou in thy valour
As when a child thou hadst in childish play.
The brave man is not he who feels no fear,
For that were stupid and irrational;
But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues,
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
As for your youth, whom blood and blows delight,
Away with them! there is not in the crew
One valiant spirit — Ha! what sound is this?

[Shouting is heard without.
Fred.
The soldiers shout; I'll run and learn the cause.

Ros.
But tell me first, how didst thou like the vet'ran?

Fred.
He is too proud; he was displeas'd with me
Because I offer'd him a little sum.

Ros.
What money! O! most gen'rous noble spirit!
Noble rewarder of superior worth!
A halfpenny for Belisarius!
But hark! they shout again — here comes Valtomer. [Shouting heard without.

Enter Valtomer.
What does this shouting mean?

Valt.
O! I have seen a sight, a glorious sight!
Thou wouldst have smil'd to see it.

Ros.
How smile? methinks thine eyes are wet with tears.

Valt.
(passing the back of his hands across his eyes).
'Faith so they are; well, well, but I smil'd too.
You heard the shouting.

Ros. and Fred.
Yes.

Valt.
O had you seen it!
Drawn out in goodly ranks, there stood our troops;
Here, in the graceful state of manly youth,
His dark face brighten'd with a gen'rous smile,
Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave,
As though his soul, like an unsheathed sword,
Had through them gleam'd, our noble gen'ral stood;
And to his soldiers, with heart-moving words,
The vet'ran showing, his brave deeds rehears'd;
Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak,
Beneath the shelter of some noble tree,
In the green honours of its youthful prime.

Ros.
How look'd the veteran?

Valt.
I cannot tell thee!
At first he bore it up with cheerful looks,
As one who fain would wear his honours bravely,
And greet the soldiers with a comrade's face:
But when Count Basil, in such moving speech,
Told o'er his actions past, and bade his troops
Great deeds to emulate, his count'nance chang'd;
High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been
By inward strong emotion half convuls'd;
Trembled his nether lip; he shed some tears.
The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud;
Then hastily he brush'd the drops away,
And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear-chok'd voice,
As though he would some grateful answer make;
When back with double force the whelming tide
Of passion came; high o'er his hoary head
His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect,
In Basil's bosom hid his aged face,
Sobbing aloud. From the admiring ranks
A cry arose; still louder shouts resound.
I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat
As it would strangle me; such as I felt,
I knew it well, some twenty years ago,
When my good father shed his blessing on me:
I hate to weep, and so I came away.

Ros.
(giving Valt. his hand).
And there, take thou my blessing for the tale.
Hark! how they shout again! 'tis nearer now.
This way they march.

[Martial music heard. Enter Soldiers marching in order, bearing Geoffry in triumph on their shoulders. After them enter Basil: the whole preceded by a band of music. They cross over the stage, are joined by Ros. &c., and Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Gauriecio and a Gentleman, talking as they enter.
Gaur.
So slight a tie as this we cannot trust,
One day her influence may detain him here,
But love a feeble agent may be found
With the ambitious.

Gent.
And so you think this boyish odd conceit
Of bearing home in triumph with his troops
That aged soldier, will your purpose serve?

Gaur.
Yes, I will make it serve; for though my prince
Is little scrupulous of right and wrong,
I have possess'd his mind, as though it were
A flagrant insult on his princely state
To honour thus the man he has neglected,
Which makes him relish, with a keener taste,
My purpos'd scheme. Come, let us fall to work.
With all their warm heroic feelings rous'd,
We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny,
Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite.
Thanks to his childish love, which has so well
Procur'd us time to tamper with the fools.

Gent.
Ah! but those feelings he has wak'd within them
Are gen'rous feelings, and endear himself.

Gaur.
It matters not, though gen'rous in their nature,
They yet may serve a most ungen'rous end;
And he who teaches men to think, though nobly,
Doth raise within their minds a busy judge
To scan his actions. Send thine agents forth,
And sound it in their ears how much Count Basil
Affects all difficult and desp'rate service,
To raise his fortunes by some daring stroke;
Having unto the emperor pledg'd his word,
To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave:
For which intent he fills their simple minds
With idle tales of glory and renown;
Using their warm attachment to himself
For most unworthy ends.
This is the busy time; go forth, my friend;
Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups
Around their ev'ning cups. There, spare no cost.
[Gives him a purse.
Observe their words, see how the poison takes,
And then return again.

Gent.
I will, my lord.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A suite of grand apartments, with their wide doors thrown open, lighted up with lamps, and filled with company in masks. Enter several masks, and pass through the first apartment to the other rooms. Then enter Basil in the disguise of a wounded soldier.
Bas.
(alone).
Now am I in the region of delight!
Within the blessed compass of these walls
She is; the gay light of those blazing lamps
Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor
Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en now, perhaps,
Amidst that motley rout she plays her part:
There will I go; she cannot be conceal'd;
For but the flowing of her graceful robe
Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it,
Though in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds,—
(looking at his habit).
Which half conceal, and half declare my state,
Beneath your kind disguise, O! let me prosper,
And boldly take the privilege ye give:
Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side;
Thus, near her face my list'ning ear incline,
And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek;
Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too!
May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall!
This once, O! serve me well, and ever after
Ye shall be treasur'd like a monarch's robes;
Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept;
And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye,
And gazing wistfully, this night recall,
With all its past delights. — But yonder moves
A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe;
It moves not like the rest — it must be she!

[Goes hastily into another apartment, and mixes with the masks.
Enter Rosinberg, fantastically dressed, with a willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets and torn letters fluttering round his neck, pursued by a group of masks from one of the inner apartments, who hoot at him, and push him about as he enters.
1st Mask.
Away, thou art a saucy jeering knave,
And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love.

Ros.
Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me:
I am a right true servant of the fair;
And as this woeful chaplet on my brow,
And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote,
A poor abandon'd lover out of place;
With any lady ready to engage,
Who will enlist me in her loving service.
Of a convenient kind my talents are,
And to all various humours may be shap'd.

2nd Mask.
What canst thou do?

3d Mask.
Ay, what besides offending?

Ros.
O! I can sigh so deeply, look so sad;
Pule out a piteous tale on bended knee;
Groan like a ghost; so very wretched be,
As would delight a tender lady's heart
But to behold.

1st Mask.
Pooh, pooh, insipid fool!

Ros.
But should my lady brisker mettle own,
And tire of all those gentle dear delights,
Such pretty little quarrels I'd invent—
As whether such a fair one (some dear friend)
Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the soft maid,
With fav'rite lap-dog of a surfeit sick,
Have greatest cause of delicate distress:
Or whether—

1st Mask.
Go, thou art too bad indeed—
(aside).
How could he know I quarrell'd with the Count?

2nd Mask.
Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's fame?

Ros.
Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree
I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound:
Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks;
Odes to her eye; 'faith, ev'ry wart and mole
That spots her snowy skin, shall have its sonnet!
I'll make love-posies for her thimble's edge,
Rather than please her not.

3d Mask.
But for her sake what dangers wilt thou brave?

Ros.
In truth, fair nun, I stomach dangers less
Than other service, and were something loath
To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance;
But if she'll wisely manage this alone,
As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself,
And meet me fairly on the open plain,
I will engage her tender steps to aid
In all annoyance of rude briar or stone,
Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so,
Which that fair lady should unaided pass,
Ye gracious pow'rs, forbid! I will defend
Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buzz —

4th Mask.
Such paltry service suits thee best indeed.
What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from her?

Ros.
Yes, to recall me soon, sublime Sultana!
For I can stand the burst of female passion,
Each change of humour and affected storm,
Be scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent,
Recall'd, caress'd, chid, and disgrac'd again;
And say what maid of spirit would forego
The bliss of one to exercise it thus?
O! I can bear ill treatment like a lamb!—

4th Mask
(beating him).
Well, bear it then, thou hast deserv'd it well.

Ros.
Zounds, lady! do not give such heavy blows;
I'm not your husband, as belike you guess.

5th Mask.
Come, lover, I enlist thee for my swain;
Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows,
Nor thus assume my rights.

Ros.
Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress prove?

5th Mask.
Such as thou wouldst, such as thy genius suits;
For since of universal scope it is,
All women's humour shalt thou find in me.
I'll gently soothe thee with such winning smiles—
To nothing sink thee with a scornful frown:
Teaze thee with peevish and affected freaks;
Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy pate;
But still between the whiles I'll careful be,
In feigned admiration of thy parts,
Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien,
To bind thy giddy soul with flatt'ry's charm;
For well thou knowst that flatt'ry ever is
The tickling spice, the pungent seasoning
Which makes this motley dish of monstrous scraps
So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste.
Thou canst not leave, though violent in extreme,
And most vexatious in her teazing moods,
Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul,
Who did declare, when calmer reason rul'd,
Thou hadst a pretty leg.

Ros.
Marry, thou hast the better of me there.

5th Mask.
And more! I'll pledge to thee my honest word,
That when your noble swainship shall bestow
More faithful homage on the simple maid,
Who loves you with sincerity and truth,
Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant,
Who mocking leads you like a trammell'd ass,
My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside,
And such an one become.

Ros.
Well said, brave lady, I will follow thee.
[Follows her to the corner of the stage.
Now on my life these ears of mine I'd give,
To have but one look of that little face,
Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court
To keep the fools in awe. Nay, nay, unmask:
I'm sure thou hast a pair of wicked eyes,
A short and saucy nose; now pri'thee do.

[Unmasking.
Alb.
(unmasking).
Well, hast thou guess'd me right?

Ros.
(bowing low).
Wild freedom, chang'd to most profound respect,
Doth make an awkward booby of me now.

Alb.
I've joined your frolic with a good intent,
For much I wish'd to gain your private ear.
The time is precious, and I must be short.

Ros.
On me thy slightest word more pow'r will have,
Most honour'd lady, than a conn'd oration.
Thou art the only one of all thy sex,
Who wearst thy years with such a winning grace.
Thou art the more admir'd the more thou fad'st.

Alb.
I thank your lordship for these courteous words;
But to my purpose — You are Basil's friend:
Be friendly to him then, and warn him well
This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay;
For if he does, there's mischief waits him here
May prove the bane of all his future days.
Remember this, I must no longer stay.
God bless your friend and you: I love you both.

[Exit.
Ros.
(alone).
What may this warning mean? I had my fears.
There's something hatching that I know not of.
I've lost all spirit for this masking now.
[Throwing away his papers and his willows.
Away, ye scraps! I have no need of you.
I would I knew what garment Basil wears:
I watch'd him, yet he did escape my sight;
But I must search again and find him out.

[Exit.
Enter Basil much agitated, with his mask in his hand.
Bas.
In vain I've sought her, follow'd every form
Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace:
I've listen'd to the tone of ev'ry voice;
I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask,
My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare,
With the imagin'd rustling of her robes,
At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night,
How art thou spent! where are thy promis'd joys?
How much of thee is gone! O spiteful fate!
And yet within the compass of these walls
Somewhere she is, although to me she is not.
Some other eye doth gaze upon her form,
Some other ear doth listen to her voice;
Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss
My spiteful stars deny.
Disturber of my soul! what veil conceals thee?
What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour?
O! heav'ns and earth, where art thou!

Enter a mask in the dress of a female conjurer.
Mask.
Methinks thou art impatient, valiant soldier:
Thy wound doth gall thee sorely; is it so?

Bas.
Away, away! I cannot fool with thee.

Mask.
I have some potent drugs may ease thy smart.
Where is thy wound? is't here?

[Pointing to the bandage on his arm.
Bas.
Pooh, pooh, begone!
Thou canst do nought—'tis in my head, my heart—
'Tis ev'ry where, where med'cine cannot cure.

Mask.
If wounded in the heart, it is a wound
Which some ungrateful fair one hath inflicted,
And I may conjure something for thy good.

Bas.
Ah! if thou couldst! what, must I fool with thee?

Mask.
Thou must awhile, and be examin'd too.
What kind of woman did the wicked deed?

Bas.
I cannot tell thee. In her presence still
My mind in such a wild delight hath been,
I could not pause to picture out her beauty,
Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair.

Mask.
Art thou a soldier, and no weapon bearst
To send her wound for wound?

Bas.
Alas! she shoots from such a hopeless height,
No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far;
None but a prince may dare.

Mask.
But if thou hast no hope, thou hast no love.

Bas.
I love, and yet in truth I had no hope.
But that she might at least with some good will,
Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindness,
Within her dear remembrance give me place.
This was my all of hope, but it is flown:
For she regards me not: despises, scorns me:
Scorns, I must say it too, a noble heart,
That would have bled for her.
[Mask, discovering herself to be Victoria, by speaking in her true voice.
O! no, she does not.

[Exit hastily in confusion.
Bas.
(stands for a moment riveted to the spot, then holds up both his hands in an ecstacy).
It is herself! it is her blessed self!
O! what a fool am I, that had no power
To follow her, and urge th' advantage on.
Begone, unmanly fears! I must be bold.

[Exit after her.
A dance of masks.
Enter Duke and Gauriecio, unmasked.
Duke.
This revelry, methinks, goes gaily on.
The hour is late, and yet your friend returns not.

Gaur.
He will return ere long — nay, there he comes.

Enter Gentleman.
Duke.
Does all go well?

(going close up to him.)
Gent.
All as your grace could wish.
For now the poison works, and the stung soldiers
Rage o'er their cups, and, with fire-kindled eyes,
Swear vengeance on the chief who would betray them.
That Frederic too, the discontented man
Of whom your highness was so lately told,
Swallows the bait, and does his part most bravely.
Gauriecio counsell'd well to keep him blind,
Nor with a bribe attempt him. On my soul!
He is so fiery he had spurn'd us else,
And ruin'd all the plot.

Duke.
Speak softly, friend — I'll hear it all in private.
A gay and careless face we now assume.

[Duke, Gaur. and Gent. retire into the inner apartment, appearing to laugh and talk gaily to the different masks as they pass them.
Re-enter Victoria, followed by Basil.
Vict.
Forbear, my lord; these words offend mine ear.

Bas.
Yet let me but this once, this once offend,
Nor thus with thy displeasure punish me;
And if my words against all prudence sin,
O! hear them, as the good of heart do list
To the wild ravings of a soul distraught

Vict.
If I indeed should listen to thy words,
They must not talk of love.

Bas.
To be with thee, to speak, to hear thee speak,
To claim the soft attention of thine eye,
I'd be content to talk of any thing,
If it were possible to be with thee,
And think of aught but love.

Vict.
I fear, my lord, you have too much presum'd
On those unguarded words, which were in truth
Utter'd at unawares, with little heed,
And urge their meaning far beyond the right.

Bas.
I thought, indeed, that they were kindly meant,
As though thy gentle breast did kindly feel
Some secret pity for my hopeless pain,
And would not pierce with scorn, ungen'rous scorn,
A heart so deeply stricken.

Vict.
So far thou'st read it well.

Bas.
Ha! have I well?
Thou dost not hate me then?

Vict.
My father comes;
He were displeas'd if he should see thee thus.

Bas.
Thou dost not hate me then?

Vict.
Away! he'll be displeas'd — I cannot say—

Bas.
Well, let him come: it is thyself I fear:
For did destruction thunder o'er my head,
By the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir
Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul!
Thou dost not hate me?

Vict.
Nay, nay, let go thy hold — I cannot hate thee.

[Breaks from him and exit.
Bas.
(alone).
Thou canst not hate me! no, thou canst not hate me!
For I love thee so well, so passing well,
With such o'erflowing heart, so very dearly,
That it were sinful not to pay me back
Some small, some kind return.

Enter Mirando, dressed like Cupid.
Mir.
Bless thee, brave soldier!

Bas.
What sayst thou, pretty child! what playful fair
Has deck'd thee out in this fantastic guise?

Mir.
It was Victoria's self; it was the princess.

Bas.
Thou art her fav'rite then?

Mir
They say I am:
And now, between ourselves, I'll tell thee, soldier,
I think in very truth she loves me well.
Such merry little songs she teaches me—
Sly riddles too, and when I'm laid to rest,
Ofttimes on tip-toe near my couch she steals,
And lifts the cov'ring so, to look upon me.
And oftentimes I feign as though I slept;
For then her warm lips to my cheeks she lays,
And pats me softly with her fair white hands;
And then I laugh, and through mine eye-lids peep,
And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat;
And then we do so laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Bas.
What does she even so, thou happiest child?
And have those rosy cheeks been press'd so dearly?
Delicious urchin! I will kiss thee too.

[Takes him eagerly up in his arms and kisses him.
Mir.
No, let me down, thy kisses are so rough,
So furious rough — she doth not kiss me so.

Bas.
Sweet boy, where is thy chamber? by Victoria's?

Mir.
Hard by her own.

Bas.
Then will I come beneath thy window soon;
And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing,
To lull thee to thy rest.

Mir.
O no, thou must not! 'tis a frightful place;
It is the church-yard of the neighb'ring dome.
The princess loves it for the lofty trees,
Whose spreading branches shade her chamber walls:
So do not I; for when 'tis dark o'nights,
Goblins howl there, and ghosts rise through the ground.
I hear them many a time when I'm a bed,
And hide beneath the clothes my cow'ring head.
O! is it not a frightful thing, my lord,
To sleep alone i' the dark?

Bas.
Poor harmless child! thy prate is wondrous sweet.

Enter a group of masks.
1st Mask.
What dost thou here, thou little truant boy?
Come play thy part with us.

Masks place Mirando in the middle, and range themselves round him.

SONG.— a glee.

[All the masks dance round Cupid. Then enter a band of satyrs, who frighten away Love and his votaries; and conclude the scene, dancing in a grotesque manner.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The street before Basil's lodging.
Enter Rosinberg and two Officers.
Ros.
(speaking as he enters).
Unless we find him quickly, all is lost.

1st Off.
His very guards, methinks, have left their post
To join the mutiny.

Ros.
(knocking very loud).
Holla! who's there within? confound this door!
It will not yield. O for a giant's strength!
Holla, holla, within! will no one hear?

Enter a porter from the house.
Ros.
(eagerly to the porter).
Is he return'd? is he return'd? not yet!
Thy face doth tell me so.

Port.
Not yet, my lord.

Ros.
Then let him ne'er return!—
Tumult, disgrace, and ruin have their way!
I'll search for him no more.

Port.
He hath been absent all the night, my lord.

Ros.
I know he hath.

2nd Off.
And yet 'tis possible
He may have enter'd by the secret door;
And now, perhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd,
Is dead to ev'ry sound.

[Ros., without speaking, rushes into the house, and the rest follow him.
Enter Basil.
Bas.
The blue air of the morning pinches keenly.
Beneath her window all the chilly night,
I felt it not. Ah! night has been my day;
And the pale lamp which from her chamber gleam'd,
Has to the breeze a warmer temper lent
Than the red burning east.

Re-enter Rosinberg, &c. from the house.
Ros.
Himself! himself! he's here! he's here! O Basil!
What fiend at such a time could lead thee forth?

Bas.
What is the matter that disturbs you thus?

Ros.
Matter that would a wiser man disturb.
Treason's abroad: thy men have mutinied.

Bas.
It is not so; thy wits have mutinied,
And left their sober station in thy brain.

1st Off.
Indeed, my lord, he speaks in sober earnest.
Some secret enemies have been employ'd
To fill your troops with strange imaginations:
As though their gen'ral would, for selfish gain,
Their gen'rous valour urge to desp'rate deeds.
All to a man, assembled on the ramparts,
Now threaten vengeance, and refuse to march.

Bas.
What! think they vilely of me? threaten too!
O! most ungen'rous, most unmanly thought!
Didst thou attempt (to Ros.)
to reason with their folly?
Folly it is; baseness it cannot be.

Ros.
Yes, truly, I did reason with a storm,
And bid it cease to rage.—
Their eyes look fire on him who questions them:
The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath
Sound dreadful through the dark extended ranks,
Like subterraneous grumblings of an earthquake.
— The vengeful hurricane
Does not with such fantastic writhings toss
The woods' green boughs, as does convulsive rage
Their forms with frantic gestures agitate.
Around the chief of hell such legions throng'd,
To bring back curse and discord on creation.

Bas.
Nay they are men, although impassion'd ones.
I'll go to them—

Ros.
And we will stand by thee.
My sword is thine against ten thousand strong,
If it should come to this.

Bas.
No, never, never!
There is no mean: I with my soldiers must
Or their commander or their victim prove.
But are my officers all staunch and faithful?

Ros.
All but that devil, Fred'ric—
He, disappointed, left his former corps,
Where he, in truth, had been too long neglected,
Thinking he should all on the sudden rise,
From Basil's well-known love of valiant men;
And now, because it still must be deferr'd,
He thinks you seek from envy to depress him,
And burns to be reveng'd.

Bas.
Well, well — This grieves me too —
But let us go.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The ramparts of the town. The soldiers are discovered, drawn up in a disorderly manner, hollaing and speaking loudly, and clashing their arms tumultuously.
1st Sol.
No, comrade, no; hell gape and swallow me,
If I do budge for such most dev'lish orders!

2nd Sol.
Huzza! brave comrades! Who says otherwise?

3d Sol.
No one, huzza! confound all treach'rous leaders!

[The soldiers huzza and clash their arms.
4th Sol.
Heav'n dart its fiery light'ning on his head!
We're men, we are not cattle to be slaughter'd!

2nd Sol.
They who do long to caper high in air,
Into a thousand bloody fragments blown,
May follow our brave gen'ral.

1st Sol.
Curse his name!
I've fought for him till my strain'd nerves have crack'd!

2nd Sol.
We will command ourselves: for Milan, comrades.

4th Sol.
Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, huzza!

[All the soldiers cast up their caps in the air, and huzza.
2nd Sol.
Yes, comrades, tempting booty waits us there,
And easy seryice: keep good hearts, my soldiers!
The gen'ral comes, good hearts! no flinching, boys!
Look bold and fiercely: we're the masters now.

[They all clash their arms and put on a fierce threatening aspect to receive their general, who now enters, followed by Rosinberg and officers. Basil walks close along the front ranks of the soldiers, looking at them very stedfastly; then retires a few paces back, and raising his arm, speaks with a very full loud voice.
Bas.
How is it, soldiers, that I see you thus,
Assembled here, unsummon'd by command?
(A confused murmur is heard amongst the soldiers; some of them call out)
But we command ourselves; we wait no orders.
(A confused noise of voices is heard, and one louder than the rest calls out)
Must we be butcher'd, for that we are brave?
(A loud clamour and clashing of arms, then several voices call out)
Damn hidden treach'ry! we defy thy orders.
Fred'ric shall lead us now —
(Other voices call out)
We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march.

Bas.
(waving his hand, and beckoning them to be silent, speaks with a very loud voice).
Yes, march where'er ye list; for Milan march.

Sol.
Hear him, hear him!

[The murmur ceases — a short pause.
Bas.
Yes, march where'er ye list: for Milan march:
But as banditti, not as soldiers go;
For on this spot of earth I will disband,
And take from you the rank and name of soldiers.
(A great clamour amongst the ranks; some call out)
What wear we arms for?
(Others call out)
No, he dares not do it.
(One voice very loud)
Disband us at thy peril, treach'rous Basil!

[Several of the soldiers brandish their arms, and threaten to attack him; the officers gather round Basil, and draw their swords to defend him.
Bas.
Put up your swords, my friends, it must not be.
I thank your zeal, I'll deal with them alone.

Ros.
What, shall we calmly stand and see thee butcher'd?

Bas.
(very earnestly).
Put up, my friends! (Officers still persist.)
What! are you rebels too?
Will no one here his gen'ral's voice obey?
I do command you to put up your swords.
Retire, and at a distance wait th' event.
Obey, or henceforth be no friends of mine.
[Officers retire very unwillingly. Basil waves them off with his hand till they are all gone, then walks up to the front of his soldiers, who still hold themselves in a threatening posture.
Soldiers! we've fought together in the field,
And bravely fought: i' the face of horrid death,
At honour's call, I've led you dauntless on;
Nor do I know the man of all your bands,
That ever poorly from the trial shrunk,
Or yielded to the foe contended space.
Am I the meanest then of all my troops,
That thus ye think, with base unmanly threats,
To move me now? Put up those paltry weapons;
They edgeless are to him who fears them not:
Rocks have been shaken from the solid base;
But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind?
Put up your swords, or dare the threaten'd deed —
Obey, or murder me. —
(A confused murmur — some of the soldiers call out)
March us to Milan, and we will obey thee.
(Others call out)
Ay, march us there, and be our leader still.

Bas.
Nay, if I am your leader, I'll command ye;
And where I do command, there shall you go,
But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate
E'en half a furlong from your destin'd way,
To seize the golden booty of the East.
Think not to gain, or temporise with me;
For should I this day's mutiny survive,
Much as I've lov'd you, soldiers, ye shall find me
Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance;
Tremendous, cruel, military vengeance.
There is no mean — a desp'rate game ye play;
Therefore, I say, obey, or murder me.
Do as ye will, but do it manfully.
He is a coward who doth threaten me:
The man who slays me, but an angry soldier;
Acting in passion, like the frantic son,
Who struck his sire and wept.
(Soldiers call out)
It was thyself who sought to murder us.

1st Sol.
You have unto the emp'ror pledg'd your faith,
To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service:
You have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood,
And we have shed our dearest blood for you.

Bas.
Hear me, my soldiers —

2d Sol.
No, hear him not, he means to cozen you.
Fred'rick will do you right —

[Endeavouring to stir up a noise and confusion amongst them.
Bas.
What cursed fiend art thou, cast out from hell
To spirit up rebellion? damned villain!
[Seizes upon 2d soldier, drags him out from the ranks, and wrests his arms from him; then takes a pistol from his side, and holds it to his head.
Stand there, damn'd meddling villain, and be silent;
For if thou utt'rest but a single word,
A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech,
I'll send thy cursed spirit from the earth,
To bellow with the damn'd!
[The soldiers keep a dead silence. After a pause, Basil resumes his speech.
Listen to me, my soldiers. —
You say that I am to the emp'ror pledg'd
To lead you foremost in all desp'rate service,
For now you call it not the path of glory;
And if in this I have offended you,
I do indeed repent me of the crime.
But new from battles, where my native troops
So bravely fought, I felt me proud at heart,
And boasted of you, boasted foolishly.
I said, fair glory's palm ye would not yield
To e'er the bravest legion train'd to arms.
I swore the meanest man of all my troops
Would never shrink before an armed host,
If honour bade him stand. My royal master
Smil'd at the ardour of my heedless words,
And promis'd when occasion claim'd our arms,
To put them to the proof.
But ye do peace, and ease, and booty love,
Safe and ignoble service — be it so—
Forgive me that I did mistake you thus,
But do not earn with savage mutiny,
Your own destruction. We'll for Pavia march,
To join the royal army near its walls,
And there with blushing forehead will I plead,
That ye are men with warlike service worn,
Requiring ease and rest. Some other chief,
Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's sound,
Will in your rearward station head you then,
And so, my friends, we'll part. As for myself,
A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks,
I'll rather fight, with brave men for my fellows,
Than be the leader of a sordid band.
(A great murmur rises amongst the ranks, soldiers call out)
We will not part! no, no, we will not part!
(All call out together)
We will not part! be thou our gen'ral still!

Bas.
How can I be your gen'ral? ye obey
As caprice moves you; I must be obey'd,
As honest men against themselves perform
A sacred oath.—
Some other chief will more indulgent prove —
You're weary grown — I've been too hard a master.

Soldiers.
Thyself, and only thee, will we obey.

Bas.
But if you follow me, yourselves ye pledge
Unto no easy service: — hardships, toils,
The hottest dangers of most dreadful fight
Will be your portion; and when all is o'er,
Each, like his gen'ral, must contented be
Home to return again, a poor brave soldier.
How say ye now? I spread no tempting lure—
A better fate than this, I promise none.

Soldiers.
We'll follow Basil.

Bas.
What token of obedience will ye give?
[A deep pause.
Soldiers, lay down your arms!
[They all lay down their arms.
If any here are weary of the service,
Now let them quit the ranks, and they shall have
A free discharge, and passport to their homes;
And from my scanty fortune I'll make good
The well-earn'd pay their royal master owes them.
Let those who follow me their arms resume, [They all resume their arms.
(Basil, holding up his hands).

High heaven be prais'd!
I had been griev'd to part with you, my soldiers.
Here is a letter from my gracious master,
With offers of preferment in the north,
Most high preferment, which I did refuse,
For that I would not leave my gallant troops. [Takes out a letter, and throws it amongst them.
(A great commotion amongst the soldiers; many of them quit their ranks, and crowd about him, calling out)

Our gallant gen'ral!
(Others call out)
We'll spend our hearts' blood for thee, noble Basil!

Bas.
And so you thought me false? this bites to the quick!
My soldiers thought me false!
[They all quit their ranks, and crowd eagerly around him. Basil, waving them off with his hands.
Away, away, you have disgusted me!
[Soldiers retire to their ranks.
'Tis well — retire, and hold yourselves prepar'd
To march upon command; nor meet again
Till you are summon'd by the beat of drum.
Some secret enemy has tamper'd with you,
For yet I will not think that in these ranks
There moves a man who wears a traitor's heart.

[The soldiers begin to march off, and music strikes up.
Bas.
(holding up his hand).
Cease, cease, triumphant sounds;
Which our brave fathers, men without reproach,
Rais'd in the hour of triumph! but this hour
To us no glory brings —
Then silent be your march — ere that again
Our steps to glorious strains like these shall move,
A day of battle o'er our heads must pass,
And blood be shed to wash out this day's stain.

[Exeunt soldiers, silent and dejected.
Enter Frederic, who starts back on seeing Basil alone.
Bas.
Advance, lieutenant; wherefore shrink you back?
I've ever seen you bear your head erect,
And front your man, though arm'd with frowning death.
Have you done aught the valiant should not do?
I fear you have.
[Fred. looks confused.
With secret art, and false insinuation,
The simple untaught soldiers to seduce
From their sworn duty, might become the base,
Become the coward well; but O! what villain
Had the dark pow'r t' engage thy valiant worth
In such a work as this?

Fred.
Is Basil, then, so lavish of his praise
On a neglected pitiful subaltern?
It were a libel on his royal master;
A foul reproach upon fair fortune cast,
To call me valiant:
And surely he has been too much their debtor,
To mean them this rebuke.

Bas.
Is nature then so sparing of her gifts,
That it is wonderful when they are found
Where fortune smiles not?
Thou art by nature brave, and so am I;
But in those distant ranks moves there not one
[Pointing off the stage.
Of high ennobled soul, by nature form'd
A hero and commander, who will yet
In his untrophied grave forgotten lie
With meaner men? I dare be sworn there does.

Fred.
What need of words? I crave of thee no favour.
I have offended, 'gainst arm'd law offended,
And shrink not from my doom.

Bas.
I know thee well, I know thou fearst not death;
On scaffold or in field with dauntless breast
Thou wilt engage him; and if thy proud soul,
In sullen obstinacy, scorns all grace,
E'en be it so. But if with manly gratitude
Thou truly canst receive a brave man's pardon,
Thou hast it freely.

Fred.
It must not be. I've been thine enemy —
I've been unjust to thee —

Bas.
I know thou hast;
But thou art brave, and I forgive thee all.

Fred.
My lord! my gen'ral! Oh, I cannot speak!
I cannot live and be the wretch I am!

Bas.
But thou canst live and be an honest man
From error turn'd, — canst live and be my friend.
[Raising Fred. from the ground.
Forbear, forbear! see where our friends advance:
They must not think thee suing for a pardon;
That would disgrace us both. Yet ere they come,
Tell me, if that thou mayst with honour tell,
What did seduce thee from thy loyal faith?

Fred.
No cunning traitor did my faith attempt,
For then I had withstood him: but of late,
I know not how — a bad and restless spirit
Has work'd within my breast, and made me wretched.
I've lent mine ear to foolish idle tales,
Of very zealous, though but recent friends.

Bas.
Softly, our friends approach — of this again.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An apartment in Basil's lodgings. Enter Basil and Rosinberg.
Ros.
Thank heaven I am now alone with thee.
Last night I sought thee with an anxious mind,
And curs'd thine ill-tim'd absence. —
There's treason in this most deceitful court,
Against thee plotting, and this morning's tumult
Hath been its damn'd effect.

Bas.
Nay, nay, my friend!
The nature of man's mind too well thou knowst,
To judge as vulgar hoodwink'd statesmen do;
Who, ever with their own poor wiles misled,
Believe each popular tumult or commotion
Must be the work of deep-laid policy.
Poor, mean, mechanic souls, who little know
A few short words of energetic force,
Some powerful passion on the sudden rous'd,
The animating sight of something noble,
Some fond trait of the mem'ry finely wak'd,
A sound, a simple song without design,
In revolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions,
All grand events, have oft effected more
Than deepest cunning of their paltry art.
Some drunken soldier, eloquent with wine,
Who loves not fighting, hath harangu'd his mates,
For they in truth some hardships have endur'd:
Wherefore in this should we suspect the court?

Ros.
Ah! there is something, friend, in Mantua's court,
Will make the blackest trait of barefac'd treason
Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye.

Bas.
Nay, 'tis a weakness in thee, Rosinberg,
Which makes thy mind so jealous and distrustful.
Why should the duke be false?

Ros.
Because he is a double, crafty prince —
Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly,
That he in some dark treaty is engag'd,
E'en with our master's enemy the Frank.

Bas.
And so thou thinkst —

Ros.
Nay, hear me to the end.
Last night that good and honourable dame,
Noble Albini, with most friendly art,
From the gay clam'rous throng my steps beguil'd,
Unmask'd before me, and with earnest grace
Entreated me, if I were Basil's friend,
To tell him hidden danger waits him here,
And warn him earnestly this court to leave.
She said she lov'd thee much; and hadst thou seen
How anxiously she urg'd—

Bas.
(interrupting him).
By heav'n and earth,
There is a ray of light breaks through thy tale,
And I could leap like madmen in their freaks,
So blessed is the gleam! Ah! no, no, no!
It cannot be! alas, it cannot be!
Yet didst thou say she urg'd it earnestly?
She is a woman, who avoids all share
In secret politics; one only charge
Her int'rest claims, Victoria's guardian friend —
And she would have me hence — it must be so.
O! would it were! how saidst thou, gentle Rosinberg?
She urg'd it earnestly — how did she urge it?
Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus,
But tell me all her words. What said she else?

Ros.
O Basil! I could laugh to see thy folly,
But that thy weakness doth provoke me so.
Most admirable, brave, determin'd man!
So well, so lately tried, what art thou now?
A vain deceitful thought transports thee thus.
Thinkst thou —

Bas.
I will not tell thee what I think.

Ros.
But I can guess it well, and it deceives thee.
Leave this detested place, this fatal court,
Where dark deceitful cunning plots thy ruin.
A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence.
The time is critical. How wilt thou feel
When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear,
That brave Pescara and his royal troops,
Our valiant fellows, have the en'my fought,
Whilst we, so near at hand, lay loit'ring here?

Bas.
Thou dost disturb thy brain with fancied fears.
Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice,
That one short day should be of all this moment;
And yet this one short day will be to me
Worth years of other time.

Ros.
Nay, rather say,
A day to darken all thy days beside.
Confound the fatal beauty of that woman,
Which hath bewitch'd thee so!

Bas.
'Tis most ungen'rous
To push me thus with rough unsparing hand,
Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly.
It is unfriendly.

Ros.
God knows my heart! I would not give thee pain;
But it disturbs me, Basil, vexes me,
To see thee so enthralled by a woman.
If she be fair, others are fair as she.
Some other face will like emotions raise,
When thou canst better play a lover's part:
But for the present, — fie upon it, Basil!

Bas.
What, is it possible thou hast beheld,
Hast tarried by her too, her converse shar'd,
Yet talkst as though she were a common fair one,
Such as a man may fancy and forget?
Thou art not, sure, so dull and brutish grown:
It is not so; thou dost belie thy thoughts,
And vainly try'st to gain me with the cheat.

Ros.
So thinks each lover of the maid he loves,
Yet, in their lives, some many maidens love.
Fie on it! leave this town, and be a soldier!

Bas.
Have done, have done! why dost thou bait me thus?
Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosinberg.
What claim hast thou my actions to control?
I'll Mantua leave when it is fit I should.

Ros.
Then, 'faith! 'tis fitting thou shouldst leave it now;
Ay, on the instant. Is't not desperation
To stay and hazard ruin on thy fame,
Though yet uncheer'd e'en by that tempting lure,
No lover breathes without? thou hast no hope.

Bas.
What, dost thou mean — curse on the paltry thought!
That I should count and bargain with my heart,
Upon the chances of unstinted favour,
As little souls their base-bred fancies feed?
O! were I conscious that within her breast
I held some portion of her dear regard,
Though pent for life within a prison's walls,
Where through my grate I yet might sometimes see
E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun;
Though plac'd by fate where some obstructing bound,
Some deep impassable between us roll'd,
And I might yet from some high tow'ring cliff
Perceive her distant mansion from afar,
Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn;
Nay, though within the circle of the moon
Some spell did fix her, never to return,
And I might wander in the hours of night,
And upward turn my ever-gazing eye,
Fondly to mark upon its varied disk
Some little spot that might her dwelling be;
My fond, my fixed heart would still adore,
And own no other love. Away, away!
How canst thou say to one who loves like me,
Thou hast no hope?

Ros.
But with such hope, my friend, how stand thy fears?
Are they so well refin'd? how wilt thou bear
Ere long to hear, that some high-favour'd prince
Has won her heart, her hand, has married her?
Though now unshackled, will it always be?

Bas.
By heav'n thou dost contrive but to torment,
And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st!
There is malignity in what thou sayst.

Ros.
No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil,
That fain would save thee from the yawning gulf,
To which blind passion guides thy heedless steps.

Bas.
Go, rather save thyself
From the weak passion which has seiz'd thy breast,
T' assume authority with sage-like brow,
And shape my actions by thine own caprice.
I can direct myself.

Ros.
Yes, do thyself,
And let no artful woman do it for thee.

Bas.
I scorn thy thought: it is beneath my scorn:
It is of meanness sprung — an artful woman!
O! she has all the loveliness of heav'n,
And all its goodness too!

Ros.
I mean not to impute dishonest arts,
I mean not to impute —

Bas.
No, 'faith, thou canst not.

Ros.
What, can I not? their arts all women have.
But now of this no more; it moves thee greatly.
Yet once again, as a most loving friend,
Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour,
A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame,
What noble spirits love, and well I know
Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place,
And give thy soldiers orders for the march.

Bas.
Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me thus,
Be gen'ral, and command my soldiers too.

Ros.
What, hath this passion in so short a space,
O! curses on it! so far chang'd thee, Basil,
That thou dost take with such ungentle warmth,
The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend?
Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids
Would not have mov'd me thus to treat my friend,
My best, mine earliest friend!

Bas.
Say kinsman rather; chance has link'd us so:
Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far;
No act of choice did e'er unite our souls.
Men most unlike we are; our thoughts unlike;
My breast disowns thee — thou'rt no friend of mine.

Ros.
Ah! have I then so long, so dearly lov'd thee;
So often, with an elder brother's care,
Thy childish rambles tended, shar'd thy sports;
Fill'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task;
Taught thy young arms thine earliest feats of strength;
With boastful pride thine early rise beheld
In glory's paths, contented then to fill
A second place, so I might serve with thee;
And sayst thou now, I am no friend of thine?
Well, be it so; I am thy kinsman then,
And by that title will I save thy name
From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will.
I'll lay me down and feign that I am sick:
And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign;
For thy unkindness makes me so indeed.
It will be said that Basil tarried here
To save his friend, for so they'll call me still;
Nor will dishonour fall upon thy name
For such a kindly deed.—
[Basil walks up and down in great agitation, then stops, covers his face with his hands, and seems to be overcome. Rosinberg looks at him earnestly.
O! blessed heav'n, he weeps!
[Runs up to him, and catches him in his arms.
O Basil! I have been too hard upon thee.
And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus?

Bas.
(in a convulsed broken voice).
I will renounce — I'll leave —

Ros.
What says my Basil?

Bas.
I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat of bliss —
This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain —
Cast off at once my little span of joy —
Be wretched — miserable — whate'er thou wilt —
Dost thou forgive me?

Ros.
O my friend! my friend!
I love thee now more than I ever lov'd thee.
I must be cruel to thee to be kind:
Each pang I see thee feel strikes through my heart;
Then spare us both, call up thy noble spirit,
And meet the blow at once. Thy troops are ready —
Let us depart, nor lose another hour.

[Basil shrinks from his arms, and looks at him with somewhat of an upbraiding, at the same time a sorrowful look.
Bas.
Nay, put me not to death upon the instant;
I'll see her once again, and then depart.

Ros.
See her but once again, and thou art ruin'd!
It must not be — if thou regardest me —

Bas.
Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast no mercy!

Ros.
Ah! thou wilt bless me all thine after-life
For what now seems to thee so merciless.

Bas.
(sitting down very dejectedly).
Mine after-life! what is mine after-life?
My day is clos'd! the gloom of night is come!
A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate.
I've seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;
I've heard the last sounds of her blessed voice;
I've seen her fair form from my sight depart:
My doom is clos'd!

Ros.
(hanging over him with pity and affection).
Alas! my friend!

Bas.
In all her lovely grace she disappear'd,
Ah! little thought I never to return!

Ros.
Why so desponding? think of warlike glory.
The fields of fair renown are still before thee;
Who would not burn such noble fame to earn?

Bas.
What now are arms, or fair renown to me?
Strive for it those who will — and yet, a while,
Welcome rough war; with all thy scenes of blood;
[Starting from his seat.
Thy roaring thunders, and thy clashing steel!
Welcome once more! what have I now to do
But play the brave man o'er again, and die?

Enter Isabella.
Isab.
(to Bas.)
My princess bids me greet you, noble count —

Bas.
(starting).
What dost thou say?

Ros.
Damn this untimely message!

Isab.
The princess bids me greet you, noble count:
In the cool grove, hard by the southern gate,
She with her train —

Bas.
What, she indeed, herself?

Isab.
Herself, my lord, and she requests to see you.

Bas.
Thank heav'n for this! I will be there anon.

Ros.
(taking hold of him).
Stay, stay, and do not be a madman still.

Bas.
Let go thy hold: what, must I be a brute,
A very brute to please thee? no, by heav'n!

[Breaks from him, and Exit.
Ros.
(striking his forehead).
All lost again! ill fortune light upon her!
[Turning eagerly to Isab.
And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here
To make appointments, honourable dame?

Isab.
Not so, my lord, you must not call it so:
The court will hunt to-morrow, and Victoria
Would have your noble gen'ral of her train.

Ros.
Confound these women, and their artful snares,
Since men will be such fools!

Isab.
Yes, grumble at our empire as you will —

Ros.
What, boast ye of it? empire do ye call it?
It is your shame! a short-liv'd tyranny,
That ends at last in hatred and contempt.

Isab.
Nay, but some women do so wisely rule,
Their subjects never from the yoke escape.

Ros.
Some women do, but they are rarely found.
There is not one in all your paltry court
Hath wit enough for the ungen'rous task.
'Faith! of you all, not one, but brave Albini,
And she disdains it — Good be with you, lady!

[Going.
Isab.
O would I could but touch that stubborn heart,
How dearly should he pay for this hour's scorn!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

A summer apartment in the country, the windows of which look to a forest. Enter Victoria in a hunting dress, followed by Albini and Isabella, speaking as they enter.
Vict.
(to Alb.)
And so you will not share our sport to-day?

Alb.
My days of frolic should ere this be o'er,
But thou, my charge, hast kept me youthful still.
I should most gladly go; but, since the dawn,
A heavy sickness hangs upon my heart;
I cannot hunt to-day.

Vict.
I'll stay at home and nurse thee, dear Albini.

Alb.
No, no, thou shalt not stay.

Vict.
Nay, but I will.
I cannot follow to the cheerful horn,
Whilst thou art sick at home.

Alb.
Not very sick.
Rather than thou shouldst stay, my gentle child,
I'll mount my horse, and go e'en as I am.

Vict.
Nay, then I'll go, and soon return again.
Meanwhile, do thou be careful of thyself.

Isab.
Hark, hark! the shrill horns call us to the field:
Your highness hears it?

[Music without,
Vict.
Yes, my Isabella;
I hear it, and methinks e'en at the sound
I vault already on my leathern seat,
And feel the fiery steed beneath me shake
His mantled sides, and paw the fretted earth;
Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace,
The low salute of gallant lords return,
Who, waiting round with eager watchful eye,
And reined steeds, the happy moment seize.
O! didst thou never hear, my Isabell,
How nobly Basil in the field becomes
His fiery courser's back?

Isab.
They say most gracefully.

Alb.
What, is the valiant count not yet departed?

Vict.
You would not have our gallant Basil go
When I have bid him stay? not so, Albini.

Alb.
Fie! reigns that spirit still so strongly in thee,
Which vainly covets all men's admiration,
And is to others cause of cruel pain?
O! would thou couldst subdue it!

Vict.
My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be severe:
For now in truth I love not admiration
As I was wont to do; in truth I do not.
But yet, this once, my woman's heart excuse,
For there is something strange in this man's love,
I never met before, and I must prove it.

Alb.
Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself,
And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell.

Vict.
O no! that rather will my peace restore:
For after this, all folly of the kind
Will quite insipid and disgusting seem;
And so I shall become a prudent maid,
And passing wise at last.
[Music heard without.
Hark, hark! again!
All good be with you! I'll return ere long.

[Exeunt Victoria and Isabella.
Alb.
(sola.)
Ay, go, and ev'ry blessing with thee go,
My most tormenting and most pleasing charge!
Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou,
Which lightly rises on the morning air,
And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze,
For ever varying, and for ever graceful.
Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind;
Vain, fanciful, and fond of worthless praise;
Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent:
And yet these adverse qualities in thee,
No dissonance, nor striking contrast make;
For still thy good and amiable gifts
The sober dignity of virtue wear not,
And such a 'witching mien thy follies show,
They make a very idiot of reproof,
And smile it to disgrace.—
What shall I do with thee?—It grieves me much
To hear Count Basil is not yet departed.
When from the chace he comes, I'll watch his steps,
And speak to him myself.—
O! I could hate her for that poor ambition,
Which silly adoration only claims,
But that I well remember in my youth
I felt the like — I did not feel it long:
I tore it soon indignant from my breast,
As that which did degrade a noble mind.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

A very beautiful grove in the forest. Music and horns heard afar off, whilst huntsmen and dogs appear passing over the stage, at a great distance. Enter Victoria and Basil, as if just alighted from their horses.
Vict.
(speaking to attendants without).
Lead on our horses to the further grove,
And wait us there.—
(To Bas.)
This spot so pleasing and so fragrant is,
'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear
Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance,
And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon:
I love to tread upon it.

Bas.
O! I would quit the chariot of a god
For such delightful footing!

Vict.
I love this spot.

Bas.
It is a spot where one would live and die.

Vict.
See, through the twisted boughs of those high elms,
The sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play,
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown.
Is it not beautiful?

Bas.
'Tis passing beautiful,
To see the sunbeams on the foliage play,
(in a soft voice).
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown.

Vict.
And here I've stood full often, and admir'd
The graceful bending, o'er that shady pool,
Of you green willow, whose fair sweepy boughs
So kiss their image on the glassy plain,
And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream.

Bas.
And I too love to see its drooping boughs
So kiss their image on the glassy plain,
And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream.

Vict.
My lord, it is uncivil in you thus
My very words with mock'ry to repeat.

Bas.
Nay, pardon me, did I indeed repeat?
I meant it not; but when I hear thee speak,
So sweetly dwells thy voice upon mine ear,
My tongue e'en unawares assumes the tone;
As mothers on their lisping infants gaze,
And catch their broken words. I pri'thee, pardon!

Vict.
But we must leave this grove: the birds fly low:
This should forebode a storm, and yet o'erhead
The sky, bespread with little downy clouds
Of purest white, would seem to promise peace.
How beautiful those pretty snowy clouds!

Bas.
Of a most dazzling brightness!

Vict.
Nay, nay, a veil that tempers heav'n's brightness,
Of softest, purest white.

Bas.
As though an angel, in his upward flight,
Had left his mantle floating in mid air.

Vict.
Still most unlike a garment; small and sever'd:
[Turning round, and perceiving that he is gazing at her.
But thou regardst them not.

Bas.
Ah! what should I regard, where should I gaze?
For in that far-shot glance, so keenly wak'd,
That sweetly rising smile of admiration,
Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is,
Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene.

Vict.
Remember you have promis'd, gentle count,
No more to vex me with such foolish words.

Bas.
Ah! wherefore should my tongue alone be mute?
When every look and every motion tell,
So plainly tell, and will not be forbid,
That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee!
[Victoria looks haughty and displeased.
Ah! pardon me, I know not what I say.
Ah! frown not thus! I cannot see thee frown.
I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I will be silent:
But, O! a reined tongue, and bursting heart,
Are hard at once to bear.—Wilt thou forgive me?

Vict.
We'll think no more of it; we'll quit this spot;
I do repent me that I led thee here.
But 'twas the fav'rite path of a dear friend;
Here many a time we wander'd, arm in arm;
We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent,
I love to haunt it still.

[Basil starts.
Bas.
His fav'rite path—a friend—here arm in arm—
(Clasping his hands, and raising them to his head).
Then there is such an one!
(Drooping his head, and looking distractedly upon the ground).
I dream'd not of it.

Vict.
(pretending not to see him).
That little lane, with woodbine all o'ergrown,
He lov'd so well!—it is a fragrant path,
Is it not, count?

Bas.
It is a gloomy one!

Vict.
I have, my lord, been wont to think it cheerful.

Bas.
I thought your highness meant to leave this spot?

Vict.
I do, and by this lane we'll take our way;
For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace,
And listen'd to the woodlark's evening song.

Bas.
What, must I on his very footsteps go?
Accursed be the ground on which he trode!

Vict.
And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown,
That he would curse my brother to my face?

Bas.
Your brother! gracious God! is it your brother?
That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke,
Is he indeed your brother?

Vict.
He is, indeed, my lord.

Bas.
Then heaven bless him! all good angels bless him!
I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him!
I could—O what a foolish heart have I!
[Walks up and down with a hurried step, tossing about his arms in transport; then stops short, and runs up to Victoria.
Is it indeed your brother?

Vict.
It is indeed: what thoughts disturb'd thee so?

Bas.
I will not tell thee; foolish thoughts they were.
Heav'n bless your brother!

Vict.
Ay, heav'n bless him too!
I have but him; would I had two brave brothers,
And thou wert one of them!

Bas.
I would fly from thee to earth's utmost bounds,
Were I thy brother—
And yet, methinks, I would I had a sister.

Vict.
And wherefore would ye so?

Bas.
To place her near thee,
The soft companion of thy hours to prove,
And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me.
Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares.
Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war,
Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore,
Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan cheek,
And kindly say, How does it fare with Basil?

Vict.
No more of this—indeed there must no more.
A friend's remembrance I will ever bear thee.
But see where Isabella this way comes:
I had a wish to speak with her alone;
Attend us here, for soon will we return,
And then take horse again.

[Exit.
Bas.
(looking after her for some time).
See with what graceful steps she moves along,
Her lovely form, in ev'ry action lovely!
If but the wind her ruffled garment raise,
It twists it into some light pretty fold,
Which adds new grace. Or should some small mishap,
Some tangling branch, her fair attire derange,
What would in others strange or awkward seem,
But lends to her some wild bewitching charm.
See, yonder does she raise her lovely arm
To pluck the dangling hedge-flow'r as she goes;
And now she turns her head, as though she view'd
The distant landscape; now methinks she walks
With doubtful ling'ring steps—will she look back?
Ah, no! you thicket hides her from my sight.
Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still,
Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the last!
And yet she said she would remember me.
I will believe it: Ah! I must believe it,
Or be the saddest soul that sees the light!
But, lo, a messenger, and from the army!
He brings me tidings; grant they may be good!
Till now I never fear'd what man might utter;
I dread his tale, God grant it may be good!

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Yes, my lord.

Bas.
What tidings bringst thou?

Mess.
Th' imperial army, under brave Pescara,
Has beat the enemy near Pavia's walls.

Bas.
Ha! have they fought? and is the battle o'er?

Mess.
Yes, conquer'd; ta'en the French king prisoner,
Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman,
Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword
Till, being one amidst surrounding foes,
His arm could do no more.

Bas.
What dost thou say? who is made pris'ner?
What king did fight so well?

Mess.
The king of France.

Bas.
Thou saidst—thy words do ring so in mine ears,
I cannot catch their sense—the battle's o'er?

Mess.
It is, my lord. Pescara staid your coming,
But could no longer stay. His troops were bold,
Occasion press'd him, and they bravely fought—
They bravely fought, my lord!

Bas.
I hear, I hear thee.
Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heart
To hear they bravely fought!—
They bravely fought, while we lay ling'ring here.
O! what a fated blow to strike me thus!
Perdition! shame! disgrace! a damned blow!

Mess.
Ten thousand of the enemy are slain;
We too have lost full many a gallant soul.
I view'd the closing armies from afar;
Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread,
Which seem'd, alas! when that the fight was o'er,
Like the wild marsh's crop of stately reeds,
Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me!
When to the field I came, what dismal sights!
What waste of life! what heaps of bleeding slain!

Bas.
Would I were laid a red, disfigur'd corse,
Amid those heaps! They fought, and we were absent!
[Walks about distractedly, then stops short.
Who sent thee here?

Mess.
Pescara sent me to inform Count Basil,
He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave
To march his tardy troops to distant quarters.

Bas.
He says so, does he? well, it shall be so.
[Tossing his arms distractedly.
I will to quarters, narrow quarters go,
Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no more.

[Exit.
Mess.
I'll follow after him; he is distracted:—
And yet he looks so wild, I dare not do it.

Enter Victoria, as if frightened, followed by Isabella.
Vict.
(to Isab.)
Didst thou not mark him as he pass'd thee too?

Isab.
I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps I had no time.

Vict.
I met him with a wild disorder'd air,
In furious haste; he stopp'd distractedly,
And gaz'd upon me with a mournful look,
But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou?
(To the messenger).
I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings.

Mess.
No, rather good, as I should deem it, madam,
Although unwelcome tidings to Count Basil.
Our army hath a glorious battle won;
Ten thousand French are slain, their monarch captive.

Vict.
(to Mess).
Ah, there it is! he was not in the fight.
Run after him I pray—nay, do not so—
Run to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg,
And bid him follow him—I pray thee run!

Mess.
Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not well;
I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go.

Vict.
No, no, I'm well enough; I'm very well;
Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly.
[Exit messenger.
O what a wretch am I! I am to blame!
I only am to blame!

Isab.
Nay, wherefore say so?
What have you done that others would not do?

Vict.
What have I done? I've fool'd a noble heart—
I've wreck'd a brave man's honour!

[Exit, leaning upon Isabella.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A dark night; no moon; but a few stars glimmering; the stage represents (as much as can be discovered for the darkness) a churchyard with part of a chapel, and a wing of the ducal palace adjoining to it. Enter Basil, with his hat off, his hair and his dress in disorder, stepping slowly, and stopping several times to listen, as if he was afraid of meeting any one.
Bas.
No sound is here: man is at rest, and I
May near his habitations venture forth,
Like some unblessed creature of the night,
Who dares not meet his face.—Her window's dark;
No streaming light doth from her chamber beam,
That I once more may on her dwelling gaze,
And bless her still. All now is dark for me!
[Pauses for some time, and looks upon the graves.
How happy are the dead, who quietly rest
Beneath these stones! each by his kindred laid,
Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those,
Who when alive his social converse shar'd:
And now perhaps some dear surviving friend
Doth here at times the grateful visit pay,
Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er,
And bless his mem'ry still!—
But I must like an outcast of my kind,
In some lone spot lay my unburied corse,
To rot above the earth; where, if perchance
The steps of human wand'rer e'er approach,
He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place,
With dark imaginations frightful made,—
The haunt of damned sprites. O cursed wretch!
I' the fair and honour'd field shouldst thou have died,
Where brave friends, proudly smiling through their tears,
Had pointed out the spot where Basil lay!
[A light seen in Victoria's window.
But, ha! the wonted, welcome light appears.
How bright within I see her chamber wall!
Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadow moves,
A slender woman's form: it is herself!
What means that motion of its clasped hands?
That drooping head? alas! is she in sorrow?
Alas! thou sweet enchantress of the mind,
Whose voice was gladness, and whose presence bliss,
Art thou unhappy too? I've brought thee woe;
It is for me thou weepst. Ah! were it so,
Fallen as I am, I yet could life endure,
In some dark den from human sight conceal'd,
So, that I sometimes from my haunt might steal,
To see and love thee still. No, no, poor wretch!
She weeps thy shame, she weeps, and scorns thee too.
She moves again; e'en darkly imag'd thus,
How lovely is that form!
[Pauses, still looking at the window.
To be so near thee, and for ever parted!
For ever lost! what art thou now to me?
Shall the departed gaze on thee again?
Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour,
While thou perceiv'st it not, and thinkst perhaps
'Tis but the mournful breeze that passes by?
[Pauses again, and gazes at the window, till the light disappears.
'Tis gone, 'tis gone! these eyes have seen their last!
The last impression of her heavenly form
The last sight of those walls wherein she lives:
The last blest ray of light from human dwelling.
I am no more a being of this world.
Farewell! farewell! all now is dark for me!
Come fated deed! come horror and despair!
Here lies my dreadful way.

Enter Geoffry, from behind a tomb.
Geof.
O! stay, my gen'ral!

Bas.
Art thou from the grave?

Geof.
O, my brave gen'ral! do you know me not?
I am old Geoffry, the old maimed soldier,
You did so nobly honour.

Bas.
Then go thy way, for thou art honourable;
Thou hast no shame, thou needst not seek the dark
Like fallen, fameless men. I pray thee go!

Geof.
Nay, speak not thus, my noble gen'ral!
Ah! speak not thus! thou'rt brave, thou'rt honour'd still.
Thy soldier's fame is far too surely rais'd
To be o'erthrown with one unhappy chance.
I've heard of thy brave deeds with swelling heart,
And yet shall live to cast my cap in air
At glorious tales of thee.—

Bas.
Forbear, forbear! thy words but wring my soul.

Geof.
O! pardon me! I am old maimed Geoffry.
O! do not go! I've but one hand to hold thee.

[Laying hold of Basil as he attempts to go away. Basil stops, and looks round upon him with softness.
Bas.
Two would not hold so well, old honour'd vet'ran!
What wouldst thou have me do?

Geof.
Return, my lord; for love of blessed heaven,
Seek not such desperate ways! where would you go?

Bas.
Does Geoffry ask where should a soldier go
To hide disgrace? there is no place but one.
[Struggling to get free.
Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not
To do some violence to thy hoary head—
What, wilt thou not? nay, then it must be so.

[Breaks violently from him, and Exit.
Geof.
Curs'd feeble hand! he's gone to seek perdition!
I cannot run. Where is that stupid hind?
He should have met me here. Holla, Fernando!

Enter Fernando.
Fer.
And which way has he gone?

Geof.
Towards the forest, if I guess aright.
But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg,
And he will follow him: run swiftly, man!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A wood, wild and savage; an entry to a cave, very much tangled with brushwood, is seen in the background. The time represents the dawn of morning. Basil is discovered standing near the front of the stage in a thoughtful posture, with a couple of pistols laid by him on a piece of projecting rock; he pauses for some time.
Bas.
(alone).
What shall I be some few short moments hence?
Why ask I now? who from the dead will rise
To tell me of that awful state unknown?
But be it what it may, or bliss or torment,
Annihilation, dark and endless rest,
Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of thought
Hath never yet conceiv'd, that change I'll dare
Which makes me any thing but what I am.
I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire,
In frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie,
Be toss'd aloft through tracts of endless void,
But cannot live in shame.—(Pauses).
O impious thought!
Will the great God of mercy, mercy have
On all but those who are most miserable?
Will he not punish with a pitying hand
The poor, fall'n, froward child?
(Pauses.)
And shall I then against His will offend,
Because He is most good and merciful?
O! horrid baseness? what, what shall I do?
I'll think no more—it turns my dizzy brain—
It is too late to think—what must be, must be—
I cannot live, therefore I needs must die.
[Takes up the pistols, and walks up and down, looking wildly around him, then discovering the cave's mouth.
Here is an entry to some darksome cave,
Where an uncoffin'd corse may rest in peace,
And hide its foul corruption from the earth.
The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot.
I'll do it here.

[Enters the cave and Exit; a deep silence; then the report of a pistol is heard from the cave, and soon after, enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, two officers and soldiers, almost at the same moment, by different sides of the stage.
Ros.
This way the sound did come.

Valt.
How came ye, soldiers? heard ye that report?

1st Sol.
We heard it, and it seem'd to come from hence,
Which made us this way hie.

Ros.
A horrid fancy darts across my mind.
[A groan heard from the cave.
(To Valt.) Ha! heardst thou that?
Valt.
Methinks it is the groan of one in pain.

[A second groan.
Ros.
Ha! there again!

Valt.
From this cave's mouth, so dark and chok'd with weeds,
It seems to come.

Ros.
I'll enter first.

1st Off.
My lord, the way is tangled o'er with briers:
Hard by a few short paces to the left,
There is another mouth of easier access;
I pass'd it even now.

Ros.
Then show the way.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The inside of the cave. Basil discovered lying on the ground, with his head raised a little upon a few stones and earth, the pistols lying beside him, and blood upon his breast. Enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, and officers. Rosinberg, upon seeing Basil, stops short with horror, and remains motionless for some time.
Valt.
Great God of heaven! what a sight is this!

[Rosinberg runs to Basil, and stoops down by his side.
Ros.
O Basil! O my friend! what hast thou done?

Bas.
(covering his face with his hand).
Why art thou come? I thought to die in peace.

Ros.
Thou knowst me not—I am thy Rosinberg,
Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman!
Thou dost not say to me, Why art thou come?

Bas.
Shame knows no kindred: I am fall'n, disgrac'd;
My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee.

Ros.
My Basil, noble spirit! talk not thus!
The greatest mind untoward fate may prove:
Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still,
Fall'n as thou art—and yet thou art not fall'n;
Who says thou art, must put his harness on,
And prove his words in blood.

Bas.
Ah, Rosinberg! this is no time to boast!
I once had hopes a glorious name to gain;
Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire;
The hour of trial came, and found me wanting.
Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten.—
And O! my friend! something upbraids me here,
[Laying his hand on his breast.
For that I now remember how ofttimes
I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth,
Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt:
But thou wilt pardon me.—

Ros.
(taking Basil' s hand, and pressing it to his breast).
Rend not my heart in twain! O! talk not thus!
I knew thou wert superior to myself,
And to all men beside: thou wert my pride;
I paid thee def'rence with a willing heart.

Bas.
It was delusion, all delusion, Rosinberg!
I feel my weakness now, I own my pride.
Give me thy hand, my time is near the close:
Do this for me: thou knowst my love, Victoria—

Ros.
O curse that woman! she it is alone—
She has undone us all!

Bas.
It doubles unto me the stroke of death
To hear thee name her thus. O curse her not!
The fault is mine; she's gentle, good and blameless—
Thou wilt not then my dying wish fulfil?

Ros.
I will! I will! what wouldst thou have me do?

Bas.
See her when I am gone; be gentle with her;
And tell her that I bless'd her in my death;
E'en in my agonies I lov'd and bless'd her.
Wilt thou do this?—

Ros.
I'll do what thou desir'st

Bas.
I thank thee, Rosinberg; my time draws near.
[Raising his head a little, and perceiving officers.
Is there not some one here? are we alone?

Ros.
(making a sign for the officers to retire).
'Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion.

Bas.
Thou knowst this desp'rate deed from sacred rites
Hath shut me out: I am unbless'd of men,
And what I am in sight of th' awful God,
I dare not think; when I am gone, my friend,
O! let a good man's prayers to heav'n ascend
For an offending spirit!—Pray for me.
What thinkest thou? although an outcast here,
May not some heavenly mercy still be found?

Ros.
Thou wilt find mercy—my beloved Basil—
It cannot be that thou shouldst be rejected.
I will with bended knee—I will implore—
It chokes mine utterance—I will pray for thee—

Bas.
This comforts me—thou art a loving friend.

[A noise without.
Ros.
(to off. without).
What noise is that?

Enter Valtomer.
Valt.
(to Ros.)
My lord, the soldiers all insist to enter.
What shall I do? they will not be denied:
They say that they will see their noble gen'ral.

Bas.
Ah, my brave fellows! do they call me so?

Ros.
Then let them come.

[Enter soldiers, who gather round Basil, and look mournfully upon him; he holds out his hand to them with a faint smile.
Bas.
My gen'rous soldiers, this is kindly meant.
I'm low i' the dust; God bless you all, brave hearts!

1st Sol.
And God bless you, my noble, noble gen'ral!
We'll never follow such a leader more.

2nd Sol.
Ah! had you staid with us, my noble gen'ral,
We would have died for you.

[3d soldier endeavours next to speak, but cannot; and kneeling down by Basil, covers his face with his cloak. Rosinberg turns his face to the wall and weeps.
Bas.
(in a very faint broken voice).
Where art thou? do not leave me, Rosinberg—
Come near to me—these fellows make me weep:
I have no power to weep—give me thy hand—
I love to feel thy grasp—my heart beats strangely—
It beats as though its breathings would be few—
Remember—

Ros.
Is there aught thou wouldst desire?

Bas.
Nought but a little earth to cover me,
And lay the smooth sod even with the ground—
Let no stone mark the spot—give no offence.
I fain would say—what can I say to thee?

[A deep pause; after a feeble struggle, Basil expires.
1st Sol.
That motion was his last.

2nd Sol.
His spirit's fled.

1st Sol.
God grant it peace! it was a noble spirit!

4th Sol.
The trumpet's sound did never rouse a braver.

1st Sol.
Alas! no trumpet e'er shall rouse him more,
Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead.

2nd Sol.
And when that sounds it will not wake a braver.

3d Sol.
How pleasantly he shar'd our hardest toil!
Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made.

4th Sol.
Ay, many a time i' the cold damp plain has he
With cheerful count'nance cried, “Good rest, my hearts!”
Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him down
E'en like the meanest soldier in the field.

[Rosinberg all this time continues hanging over the body, and gazing upon it. Valtomer now endeavours to draw him away.
Valt.
This is too sad, my lord.

Ros.
There, seest thou how he lies? so fix'd, so pale!
Ah! what an end is this! thus lost! thus fall'n!
To be thus taken in his middle course,
Where he so nobly strove; till cursed passion
Came like a sun-stroke on his mid-day toil,
And cut the strong man down. O Basil! Basil!

Valt.
Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow here.

Ros.
He was the younger brother of my soul.

Valt.
Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight.
Time calls us, let the body be remov'd.

Ros.
He was—O! he was like no other man!

Valt.
(still endeavouring to draw him away).
Nay, now forbear.

Ros.
I lov'd him from his birth!

Valt.
Time presses, let the body be remov'd.

Ros.
What sayst thou?

Valt.
Shall we not remove him hence?

Ros.
He has forbid it, and has charg'd me well
To leave his grave unknown? for that the church
All sacred rites to the self-slain denies.
He would not give offence.

1st Sol.
What! shall our gen'ral, like a very wretch,
Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground?
No last salute to bid his soul farewell?
No warlike honours paid? it shall not be.

2nd Sol.
Laid thus? no, by the blessed light of heav'n!
In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls
He shall be laid; in face of day be laid:
And though black priests should curse us in the teeth,
We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have power
To grasp a musket.

Several soldiers.
Let those who dare forbid it!

Ros.
My brave companions, be it as you will.

[Spreading out his arms as if he would embrace the soldiers.—They prepare to remove the body.
Valt.
Nay, stop a while, we will not move it now,
For see a mournful visitor appears,
And must not be denied.

Enter Victoria and Isabella.
Vict.
I though to find him here; where has he fled?

[Rosinberg points to the body without speaking; Victoria shrieks out and falls into the arms of Isabella.
Isab.
Alas! my gentle mistress, this will kill thee.

Vict.
(recovering).
Unloose thy hold, and let me look upon him.
O! horrid, horrid sight! my ruin'd Basil!
Is this the sad reward of all thy love?
O! I have murder'd thee!
[Kneels down by the body, and bends over it.
These wasted streams of life! this bloody wound!
[Laying her hand upon his heart.
Is there no breathing here? all still! all cold!
Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again,
And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee,
In spite of all reproach. Alas! alas!
A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid,
And dost not hear my call.

Ros.
No, madam; now your pity comes too late.

Vict.
Dost thou upbraid me? O! I have deserv'd it!

Ros.
No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid:
But woman's grief is like a summer storm,
Short as it violent is; in gayer scenes,
Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze,
And play the airy goddess of the day,
Thine eye, perchance, amidst th' observing crowd,
Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend,
And then it will upbraid.

Vict.
No, never, never! thus it shall not be.
To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go,
Where sad and lonely, through the dismal grate
Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid me.

Ros.
Forgive me, heed me not; I'm griev'd at heart;
I'm fretted, gall'd, all things are hateful to me.
If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee;
I must forgive thee: with his dying breath
He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts
Were love to thee; in death he lov'd and bless'd thee.

[Victoria goes to throw herself upon the body, but is prevented by Valtomer and Isabella, who support her in their arms, and endeavour to draw her away from it.
Vict.
Oh! force me not away! by his cold corse
Let me lie down and weep. O! Basil, Basil!
The gallant and the brave! how hast thou lov'd me!
If there is any holy kindness in you,
[To Isab. and Valt.
Tear me not hence.
For he lov'd me in thoughtless folly lost,
With all my faults, most worthless of his love;
And him I'll love in the low bed of death,
In horror and decay.—
Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days
In humble pray'r for his departed spirit:
Cold as his grave shall be my earthy bed,
As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence.
I will not go, for grief hath made me strong.

[Struggling to get loose.
Ros.
Do not withhold her, leave her sorrow free.
[They let her go, and she throws herself upon the body in an agony of grief.
It doth subdue the sternness of my grief
To see her mourn him thus.—Yet I must curse.—
Heav'n's curses light upon her damned father,
Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck!

Isab.
If he has done it, you are well reveng'd,
For all his hidden plots are now detected.
Gauriecio, for some int'rest of his own,
His master's secret dealings with the foe
Has to Lannoy betray'd; who straight hath sent,
On the behalf of his imperial lord,
A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua.
His discontented subjects aid him not;
He must submit to the degrading terms
A haughty conqu'ring power will now impose.

Ros.
And art thou sure of this?

Isab.
I am, my lord.

Ros.
Give me thy hand, I'm glad on't, O! I'm glad on't!
It should be so! how like a hateful ape,
Detected, grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd hoard,
A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds
Are open'd to the day! scorn'd, hooted, mock'd!
Scorn'd by the very fools who most admir'd
His worthless art. But when a great mind falls,
The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin;
With gentle censure using but his faults
As modest means to introduce his praise;
For pity like a dewy twilight comes
To close th' oppressive splendour of his day,
And they who but admir'd him in his height,
His alter'd state lament, and love him fallen.

[Exeunt.

DE MONFORT:

A TRAGEDY.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. MEN

• De Monfort.
• Rezenvelt.
• Count Freberg, friend to De Monfort and Rezenvelt.
• Manuel, servant to De Monfort.
• Jerome, De Monfort's old landlord.
• Conrad, an artful knave.
• Bernard, a monk.
• Monks, gentlemen, officers, page, &c. &c.

WOMEN

• Jane De Monfort, sister to De Monfort.
• Countess Freberg, wife to Freberg.
• Theresa, servant to the Countess.
• Abbess, nuns, and a lay sister, ladies, &c.

Scene, a town in Germany.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Jerome's house. A large old-fashioned chamber.
Jer.
(speaking without).
This way, good masters.
Enter Jerome, bearing a light, and followed by Manuel, and servants carrying luggage.
Rest your burthens here.
This spacious room will please the marquis best.
He takes me unawares; but ill prepar'd:
If he had sent, e'en though a hasty notice,
I had been glad.

Man.
Be not disturb'd, good Jerome;
Thy house is in most admirable order;
And they who travel o' cold winter nights
Think homeliest quarters good.

Jer.
He is not far behind?

Man.
A little way.
(To the servants.)
Go you and wait below till he arrive.

Jer.
(shaking Manuel by the hand).
Indeed, my friend, I'm glad to see you here;
Yet marvel wherefore.

Man.
I marvel wherefore too, my honest Jerome:
But here we are; pri'thee be kind to us.

Jer.
Most heartily I will. I love your master:
He is a quiet and a lib'ral man:
A better inmate never cross'd my door.

Man.
Ah! but he is not now the man he was.
Lib'ral he'll be. God grant he may be quiet.

Jer.
What has befallen him?

Man.
I cannot tell thee;
But, faith, there is no living with him now.

Jer.
And yet, methinks, if I remember well
You were about to quit his service, Manuel,
When last he left this house. You grumbled then.

Man.
I've been upon the eve of leaving him
These ten long years; for many times he is
So difficult, capricious, and distrustful,
He galls my nature—yet, I know not how,
A secret kindness binds me to him still.

Jer.
Some who offend from a suspicious nature,
Will afterwards such fair confession make
As turns e'en the offence into a favour.

Man.
Yes, some indeed do so; so will not he:
He'd rather die than such confession make.

Jer.
Ay, thou art right; for now I call to mind
That once he wrong'd me with unjust suspicion,
When first he came to lodge beneath my roof;
And when it so fell out that I was prov'd
Most guiltless of the fault, I truly thought
He would have made profession of regret.
But silent, haughty, and ungraciously
He bore himself as one offended still.
Yet shortly after, when unwittingly
I did him some slight service, o' the sudden
He overpower'd me with his grateful thanks;
And would not be restrain'd from pressing on me
A noble recompense. I understood
His o'erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well,
And took it as he meant.

Man.
'Tis often thus.
I would have left him many years ago,
But that with all his faults there sometimes come
Such bursts of natural goodness from his heart,
As might engage a harder churl than I
To serve him still.—And then his sister too;
A noble dame, who should have been a queen:
The meanest of her hinds, at her command,
Had fought like lions for her, and the poor,
E'en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless'd her—
She would have griev'd if I had left my lord.

Jer.
Comes she along with him?

Man.
No, he departed all unknown to her,
Meaning to keep conceal'd his secret route;
But well I knew it would afflict her much,
And therefore left a little nameless billet,
Which after our departure, as I guess,
Would fall into her hands, and tell her all.
What could I do! O 'tis a noble lady!

Jer.
All this is strange—something disturbs his mind—
Belike he is in love.

Man.
No, Jerome, no.
Once on a time I serv'd a noble master,
Whose youth was blasted with untoward love,
And he, with hope and fear and jealousy
For ever toss'd, led an unquiet life:
Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit,
His pale wan face such gentle sadness wore
As mov'd a kindly heart to pity him.
But Monfort, even in his clamest hour,
Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye
Which powerfully repels all sympathy.
O no! good Jerome, no, it is not love.

Jer.
Hear I not horses trampling at the gate?
[Listening.
He is arrived — stay thou — I had forgot —
A plague upon't! my head is so confus'd—
I will return i' the instant to receive him.

[Exit hastily.
[A great bustle without. Exit Manuel with lights, and returns again, lighting in De Monfort, as if just alighted from his journey.
Man.
Your ancient host, my lord, receives you gladly,
And your apartment will be soon prepar'd.

De Mon.
'Tis well.

Man.
Where shall I place the chest you gave in charge?
So please you, say, my lord.

De Mon.
(throwing himself into a chair).
Wheree'er thou wilt.

Man.
I would not move that luggage till you came.

[Pointing to certain things.
De Mon.
Move what thou wilt, and trouble me no more.

[Manuel, with the assistance of other servants, sets about putting the things in order, and De Monfort remains sitting in a thoughtful posture).
Enter Jerome, bearing wine, &c. on a salver. As he approaches De Monfort, Manuel pulls him by the sleeve.
Man.
(aside to Jerome).
No, do not now; he will not be disturb'd.

Jer.
What! not to bid him welcome to my house,
And offer some refreshment?

Man.
No, good Jerome.
Softly a little while: I pri'thee do.

[Jerome walks softly on tiptoe, till he gets behind De Monfort, then peeping on one side to see his face.
Jer.
(aside to Manuel).
Ah, Manuel, what an alter'd man is here!
His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale—
He left this house a comely gentleman.

De Mon.
Who whispers there?

Man.
'Tis your old landlord, sir.

Jer.
I joy to see you here—I crave your pardon—
I fear I do intrude—

De Mon.
No, my kind host, I am obliged to thee.

Jer.
How fares it with your honour?

De Mon.
Well enough.

Jer.
Here is a little of the fav'rite wine
That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me.

[Fills a glass.
De Mon.
(after drinking).
I thank you, Jerome, 'tis delicious.

Jer.
Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so.

De Mon.
And how does she?

Jer.
Alas, my lord! she's dead.

De Mon.
Well, then she is at rest.

Jer.
How well, my lord?

De Mon.
Is she not with the dead, the quiet dead,
Where all is peace? Not e'en the impious wretch,
Who tears the coffin from its earthy vault,
And strews the mould'ring ashes to the wind,
Can break their rest.

Jer.
Woe's me! I thought you would have griev'd for her.
She was a kindly soul! Before she died,
When pining sickness bent her cheerless head,
She set my house in order—
And but the morning ere she breath'd her last,
Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine,
That should the Lord de Monfort come again
His cup might sparkle still.
[De Monfort walks across the stage, and wipes his eyes.
Indeed I fear I have distress'd you, sir;
I surely thought you would be griev'd for her.

De Mon.
(taking Jerome's hand).
I am, my friend. How long has she been dead?

Jer.
Two sad long years.

De Mon.
Would she were living still!
I was too troublesome, too heedless of her.

Jer.
O no! she lov'd to serve you.

[Loud knocking without.
De Mon.
What fool comes here, at such untimely hours,
To make this cursed noise? (To Manuel.)
Go to the gate.
[Exit Manuel.
All sober citizens are gone to bed;
It is some drunkards on their nightly rounds,
Who mean it but in sport.

Jer.
I hear unusual voices—here they come.

Re-enter Manuel, showing in Count Freberg and his lady, with a mask in her hand.
Freb.
(running to embrace De Mon.)
My dearest Monfort! most unlook'd for pleasure!
Do I indeed embrace thee here again?
I saw thy servant standing by the gate,
His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings!
Welcome, thrice welcome here!

De Mon.
I thank thee, Freberg, for this friendly visit,
And this fair lady too.

[Bowing to the lady.
Lady.
I fear, my lord,
We do intrude at an untimely hour:
But now, returning from a midnight mask,
My husband did insist that we should enter.

Freb.
No, say not so; no hour untimely call,
Which doth together bring long absent friends.
Dear Monfort, why hast thou so slily play'd,
Coming upon us thus so suddenly?

De Mon.
O! many varied thoughts do cross our brain,
Which touch the will, but leave the memory trackless;
And yet a strange compounded motive make,
Wherefore a man should bend his evening walk
To th' east or west, the forest or the field.
Is it not often so?

Freb.
I ask no more, happy to see you here
From any motive. There is one behind,
Whose presence would have been a double bliss:
Ah! how is she? The noble Jane De Monfort.

De Mon.
(confused).
She is—I have—I left my sister well.

Lady.
(to Freberg).
My Freberg, you are heedless of respect.
You surely mean to say the Lady Jane.

Freb.
Respect! No, madam; Princess, Empress, Queen,
Could not denote a creature so exalted
As this plain appellation doth,
The noble Jane De Monfort.

Lady.
(turning from him displeased to Mon.)
You are fatigued, my lord; you want repose;
Say, should we not retire?

Freb.
Ha! is it so?
My friend, your face is pale; have you been ill?

De Mon.
No, Freberg, no; I think I have been well.

Freb.
(shaking his head).
I fear thou hast not, Monfort—Let it pass.
We'll re-establish thee: we'll banish pain.
I will collect some rare, some cheerful friends,
And we shall spend together glorious hours,
That gods might envy. Little time so spent
Doth far outvalue all our life beside.
This is indeed our life, our waking life,
The rest dull breathing sleep.

De Mon.
Thus, it is true, from the sad years of life
We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes strike,
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten;
Which, through the dreary gloom of time o'erpast,
Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste.
But few they are, as few the heaven-fir'd souls
Whose magic power creates them. Bless'd art thou,
If, in the ample circle of thy friends,
Thou canst but boast a few.

Freb.
Judge for thyself: in truth I do not boast.
There is amongst my friends, my later friends,
A most accomplish'd stranger: new to Amberg;
But just arriv'd, and will ere long depart:
I met him in Franconia two years since.
He is so full of pleasant anecdote,
So rich, so gay, so poignant is his wit,
Time vanishes before him as he speaks,
And ruddy morning through the lattice peeps
Ere night seems well begun.

De Mon.
How is he call'd?

Freb.
I will surprise thee with a welcome face:
I will not tell thee now.

Lady.
(to Mon.)
I have, my lord, a small request to make,
And must not be denied. I too may boast
Of some good friends, and beauteous country-women:
To-morrow night I open wide my doors
To all the fair and gay: beneath my roof
Music, and dance, and revelry shall reign:
I pray you come and grace it with your presence.

De Mon.
You honour me too much to be denied.

Lady.
I thank you, sir; and in return for this,
We shall withdraw, and leave you to repose.

Freb.
Must it be so? Good night—sweet sleep to thee!

(to DeMonfort.)
De Mon.
(to Freb.)
Good night.
(To lady.)
Good night, fair lady.

Lady.
Farewell!

[Exeunt Freberg and lady.
De Mon.
(to Jer.)
I thought Count Freberg had been now in France.

Jer.
He meant to go, as I have been inform'd.

De Mon.
Well, well, prepare my bed; I will to rest.

[Exit Jerome.
De Mon.
(aside).
I know not how it is, my heart stands back,
And meets not this man's love.—Friends! rarest friends!
Rather than share his undiscerning praise
With every table-wit, and book-form'd sage,
And paltry poet puling to the moon,
I'd court from him proscription, yea abuse,
And think it proud distinction.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A small apartment in Jerome's house: a table and breakfast set out. Enter De Monfort, followed by Manuel, and sits down by the table, with a cheerful face.
De Mon.
Manuel, this morning's sun shines pleasantly:
These old apartments too are light and cheerful.
Our landlord's kindness has reviv'd me much:
He serves as though he lov'd me. This pure air
Braces the listless nerves, and warms the blood:
I feel in freedom here.

[Filling a cup of coffee, and drinking.
Man.
Ah! sure, my lord,
No air is purer than the air at home.

De Mon.
Here can I wander with assured steps,
Nor dread, at every winding of the path,
Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way,
To move—

(stopping short.)
Man.
What says your honour?
There are no serpents in our pleasant fields.

De Mon.
Thinkst thou there are no serpents in the world,
But those who slide along the grassy sod,
And sting the luckless foot that presses them?
There are who in the path of social life
Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun,
And sting the soul—Ay, till its healthful frame
Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease,
So deadly is the wound.

Man.
Heav'n guard your honour from such horrid scath!
They are but rare, I hope!

De Mon.
(shaking his head).
We mark the hollow eye, the wasted frame,
The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men,
But do not know the cause.

Man.
'Tis very true. God keep you well, my lord!

De Mon.
I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well.
I shall be gay too, by the setting sun.
I go to revel it with sprightly dames,
And drive the night away.

[Filling another cup, and drinking.
Man.
I should be glad to see your honour gay.

De Mon.
And thou too shalt be gay. There, honest Manuel,
Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse,
And take at night a cheerful jovial glass.
Here is one too, for Bremer; he loves wine:
And one for Jaques: be joyful altogether.

Enter Servant.
Ser.
My lord, I met e'en now, a short way off,
Your countryman the Marquis Rezenvelt.

De Mon.
(starting from his seat, and letting the cup fall from his hand).
Whom sayst thou?

Ser.
Marquis Rezenvelt, an' please you.

De Mon.
Thou liest—it is not so—it is impossible!

Ser.
I saw him with these eyes, plain as yourself.

De Mon.
Fool! 'tis some passing stranger thou hast seen,
And with a hideous likeness been deceiv'd.

Ser.
No other stranger could deceive my sight.

De Mon.
(dashing his clenched hand violently upon the table, and overturning every thing).
Heaven blast thy sight! it lights on nothing good.

Ser.
I surely thought no harm to look upon him.

De Mon.
What, dost thou still insist? He must it be?
Does it so please thee well? (Servant endeavours to speak.)
Hold thy damn'd tongue!
By heaven I'll kill thee!

(Going furiously up to him.)
Man.
(in a soothing voice).
Nay, harm him not, my lord; he speaks the truth;
I've met his groom, who told me certainly
His lord is here. I should have told you so,
But thought, perhaps, it might displease your honour.

De Mon.
(becoming all at once calm, and turning sternly to Manuel.
And how dar'st thou
To think it would displease me?
What is't to me who leaves or enters Amberg?
But it displeases me, yea e'en to frenzy,
That every idle fool must hither come,
To break my leisure with the paltry tidings
Of all the cursed things he stares upon.
[Servant attempts to speak—De Monfort stamps with his foot.
Take thine ill-favour'd visage from my sight,
And speak of it no more.
[Exit Servant.
And go thou too; I choose to be alone. [Exit Manuel.
[De Monfort goes to the door by which they went out; opens it, and looks.

But is he gone indeed? Yes, he is gone.
[Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks: then gives loose to all the fury of gesture, and walks up and down in great agitation.
It is too much: by heaven it is too much!
He haunts me—stings me—like a devil haunts—
He'll make a raving maniac of me—Villain!
The air wherein thou drawst thy fulsome breath
Is poison to me—Oceans shall divide us!
(Pauses.)
But no; thou thinkst I fear thee, cursed reptile;
And hast a pleasure in the damned thought.
Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy sight,
I'll stay and face thee still.
[Knocking at the chamber door.
Ha! who knocks there?

Freberg.
(without).
It is thy friend, De Monfort.

De Mon.
(opening the door).
Enter, then.

Enter Freberg.
Freb.
(taking his hand kindly).
How art thou now? How hast thou pass'd the night?
Has kindly sleep refresh'd thee?

De Mon.
Yes, I have lost an hour or two in sleep,
And so should be refresh'd.

Freb.
And art thou not?
Thy looks speak not of rest. Thou art disturb'd.

De Mon.
No, somewhat ruffled from a foolish cause,
Which soon will pass away.

Freb.
(shaking his head).
Ah no, De Monfort! something in thy face
Tells me another tale. Then wrong me not:
If any secret grief distract thy soul,
Here am I all devoted to thy love:
Open thy heart to me. What troubles thee?

De Mon.
I have no grief: distress me not, my friend.

Freb.
Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou my friend,
Wouldst thou not open all thine inmost soul,
And bid me share its every consciousness?

De Mon.
Freberg, thou knowst not man; not nature's man,
But only him who, in smooth studied works
Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully
In all the splendid foppery of virtue.
That man was never born whose secret soul,
With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts,
Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams,
Was ever open'd to another's scan.
Away, away! it is delusion all.

Freb.
Well, be reserved then; perhaps I'm wrong.

De Mon.
How goes the hour?

Freb.
'Tis early still; a long day lies before us;
Let us enjoy it. Come along with me;
I'll introduce you to my pleasant friend.

De Mon.
Your pleasant friend?

Freb.
Yes, him of whom I spake.
[Taking his hand.
There is no good I would not share with thee;
And this man's company, to minds like thine,
Is the best banquet feast I could bestow.
But I will speak in mystery no more;
It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt.
[De Mon. pulls his hand hastily from Freberg, and shrinks back.
Ha! what is this?
Art thou pain-stricken, Monfort?
Nay, on my life, thou rather seemst offended:
Does it displease thee that I call him friend?

De Mon.
No, all men are thy friends.

Freb.
No, say not all men. But thou art offended.
I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure.
But if his presence be not welcome here,
He shall not join our company to-day.

De Mon.
What dost thou mean to say? What is't to me
Whether I meet with such a thing as Rezenvelt
To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never?

Freb.
In truth, I thought you had been well with him;
He prais'd you much.

De Mon.
I thank him for his praise—Come, let us move:
This chamber is confin'd and airless grown.
[Starting.
I hear a stranger's voice!

Freb.
'Tis Rezenvelt.
Let him be told that we are gone abroad.

De Mon.
(proudly).
No! let him enter. Who waits there? Ho! Manuel!

Enter Manuel.
Man.
The Marquis Rezenvelt.
I have not told him that you are within.

De Mon.
(angrily).
And wherefore didst thou not? Let him ascend.

[A long pause. De Montfort walking up and down with a quickpace.
Enter Rezenvelt, who runs freely up to De Monfort.
Rez.
(to De Mon.)
My noble marquis, welcome!

De Mon.
Sir, I thank you.

Rez.
(to Freb.)
My gentle friend, well met. Abroad so early?

Freb.
It is indeed an early hour for me.
How sits thy last night's revel on thy spirits?

Rez.
O, light as ever. On my way to you,
E'en now, I learnt De Montfort was arriv'd,
And turn'd my steps aside; so here I am.

[Bowing gaily to De Monfort.
De Mon.
I thank you, sir; you do me too much honour.

[Proudly.
Rez.
Nay, say not so; not too much honour surely,
Unless, indeed, 'tis more than pleases you.

De Mon.
(confused).
Having no previous notice of your coming,
I look'd not for it.

Rez.
Ay, true indeed; when I approach you next,
I'll send a herald to proclaim my coming,
And bow to you by sound of trumpet, marquis.

De Mon.
(to Freb., turning haughtily from Rezenvelt with affected indifference).
How does your cheerful friend, that good old man?

Freb.
My cheerful friend? I know not whom you mean.

De Mon.
Count Waterlan.

Freb.
I know not one so nam'd.

De Mon.
(very confused).
O pardon me—it was at Basle I knew him.

Freb.
You have not yet inquir'd for honest Reisdale.
I met him as I came, and mention'd you.
He seem'd amaz'd; and fain he would have learnt
What cause procur'd us so much happiness.
He question'd hard, and hardly would believe;
I could not satisfy his strong desire.

Rez.
And know you not what brings De Montfort here?

Freb.
Truly I do not.

Rez.
O! 'tis love of me.
I have but two short days in Amberg been,
And here with postman's speed he follows me,
Finding his home so dull and tiresome grown.

Freb.
(to De Mon.)
Is Rezenvelt so sadly miss'd with you?
Your town so chang'd?

De Mon.
Not altogether so;
Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain
For fools to laugh at.

Rez.
But he laughs not, and therefore he is wise.
He ever frowns on them with sullen brow
Contemptuous; therefore he is very wise;
Nay, daily frets his most refined soul
With their poor folly to its inmost core;
Therefore he is most eminently wise.

Freb.
Fy, Rezenvelt! you are too early gay.
Such spirits rise but with the ev'ning glass:
They suit not placid morn.
[To De Monfort, who, after walking impatiently up and down, comes close to his ear and lays hold of his arm.
What would, you Monfort?

De Mon.
Nothing—what is't o'clock?
No, no—I had forgot—'tis early still.

[Turns away again.
Freb.
(to Rez.)
Waltser informs me that you have agreed
To read his verses o'er, and tell the truth.
It is a dangerous task.

Rez.
Yet I'll be honest:
I can but lose his favour and a feast.

[Whilst they speak, De Monfort walks up and down impatiently and irresolute: at last pulls the bell violently.
Enter Servant.
De Mon.
(to ser.)
What dost thou want?

Ser.
I thought your honour rung.

De Mon.
I have forgot—stay. Are my horses saddled?

Ser.
I thought, my lord, you would not ride to-day,
After so long a journey.

De Mon.
(impatiently).
Well—'tis good.
Begone!—I want thee not.

[Exit servant.
Rez.
(smiling significantly).
I humbly crave your pardon, gentle marquics.
It grieves me that I cannot stay with you,
And make my visit of a friendly length.
I trust your goodness will excuse me now;
Another time I shall be less unkind.
(To Freberg.)
Will you not go with me?

Freb.
Excuse me, Monfort, I'll return again.

[Exeunt Rezenvelt and Freberg.
De Mon.
(alone, tossing his arms distractedly).
Hell hath no greater torment for th' accurs'd
Than this man's presence gives—
Abhorred fiend! he hath a pleasure too,
A damned pleasure in the pain he gives!
Oh! the side glance of that detested eye!
That conscious smile! that full insulting lip!
It touches every nerve: it makes me mad.
What, does it please thee? Dost thou woo my hate?
Hate shalt thou have! determin'd, deadly hate,
Which shall awake no smile. Malignant villain!
The venom of thy mind is rank and devilish,
And thin the film that hides it.
Thy hateful visage ever spoke thy worth:
I loath'd thee when a boy.
That men should be besotted with him thus!
And Freberg likewise so bewitched is,
That like a hireling flatt'rer at his heels
He meanly paces, off'ring brutish praise.
O! I could curse him too!

[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A very splendid apartment in Count Freberg's house, fancifully decorated. A wide folding-door opened, shows another magnificent room lighted up to receive company. Enter through the folding doors the Count and Countess, richly dressed.
Freb.
(looking round).
In truth, I like those decorations well:
They suit those lofty walls. And here, my love,
The gay profusion of a woman's fancy
Is well display'd. Noble simplicity
Becomes us less, on such a night as this,
Than gaudy show.

Lady.
Is it not noble then? (He shakes his head.)
I thought it so;
And as I know you love simplicity,
I did intend it should be simple too.

Freb.
Be satisfied, I pray; we want to-night
A cheerful banquet-house, and not a temple.
How runs the hour?

Lady.
It is not late, but soon we shall be rous'd
With the loud entry of our frolic guests.

Enter a Page, richly dressed.
Page.
Madam, there is a lady in your hall,
Who begs to be admitted to your presence.

Lady.
Is it not one of our invited friends?

Page.
No, far unlike to them; it is a stranger.

Lady.
How looks her countenance?

Page.
So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,
I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smil'd,
For so she did to see me thus abash'd,
Methought I could have compass'd sea and land
To do her bidding.

Lady.
Is she young or old?

Page.
Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair:
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he too had been aw'd.

Lady.
The foolish stripling!
She has bewitch'd thee. Is she large in stature?

Page.
So stately and so graceful is her form,
I thought at first her stature was gigantic;
But on a near approach I found, in truth,
She scarcely does surpass the middle size.

Lady.
What is her garb?

Page.
I cannot well describe the fashion of it.
She is not deck'd in any gallant trim,
But seems to me clad in the usual weeds
Of high habitual state; for as she moves
Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold,
As I have seen unfurled banners play
With a soft breeze.

Lady.
Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;
It is an apparition thou hast seen.

Freb.
(starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the lady and the page).
It is an apparition he has seen,
Or it is Jane De Monfort.

[Exit, hastily.
Lady
(displeased).
No; such description surely suits not her.
Did she inquire for me?

Page.
She ask'd to see the lady of Count Freberg.

Lady.
Perhaps it is not she—I fear it is—
Ha! here they come. He has but guess'd too well.

Enter Freberg, leading in Jane De Monfort.
Freb.
(presenting her to lady).
Here, madam, welcome a most worthy guest.

Lady.
Madam, a thousand welcomes! Pardon me;
I could not guess who honour'd me so far;
I should not else have waited coldly here.

Jane.
I thank you for this welcome, gentle countess.
But take those kind excuses back again;
I am a bold intruder on this hour,
And am entitled to no ceremony.
I came in quest of a dear truant friend,
But Freberg has inform'd me—
(To Freberg.)
And he is well, you say?

Freb.
Yes, well, but joyless.

Jane.
It is the usual temper of his mind;
It opens not, but with the thrilling touch
Of some strong heart-string o' the sudden press'd.

Freb.
It may be so, I've known him otherwise:
He is suspicious grown.

Jane.
Not so, Count Freberg; Monfort is too noble.
Say rather, that he is a man in grief,
Wearing at times a strange and scowling eye;
And thou, less generous than beseems a friend,
Hast thought too hardly of him.

Freb.
(bowing with great respect).
So will I say;
I'll own nor word nor will, that can offend you.

Lady.
De Monfort is engag'd to grace our feast:
Ere long you'll see him here.

Jane.
I thank you truly, but this homely dress
Suits not the splendour of such scenes as these.

Freb.
(pointing to her dress).
Such artless and majestic elegance,
So exquisitely just, so nobly simple,
Will make the gorgeous blush.

Jane
(smiling).
Nay, nay, be more consistent, courteous knight,
And do not praise a plain and simple guise
With such profusion of unsimple words.
I cannot join your company to-night.

Lady.
Not stay to see your brother?

Jane.
Therefore it is I would not, gentle hostess.
Here will he find all that can woo the heart
To joy and sweet forgetfulness of pain;
The sight of me would wake his feeling mind
To other thoughts. I am no doating mistress;
No fond distracted wife, who must forthwith
Rush to his arms and weep. I am his sister:
The eldest daughter of his father's house:
Calm and unwearied is my love for him;
And having found him, patiently I'll wait,
Nor greet him in the hour of social joy,
To dash his mirth with tears.—
The night wears on; permit me to withdraw.

Freb.
Nay, do not, do not injure us so far!
Disguise thyself, and join our friendly train.

Jane.
You wear not masks to-night.

Lady.
We wear not masks, but you may be con-ceal'd
Behind the double foldings of a veil.

Jane
(after pausing to consider).
In truth, I feel a little so inclin'd.
Methinks unknown, I e'en might speak to him,
And gently prove the temper of his mind;
But for the means I must become your debtor.

[To lady.
Lady.
Who waits? (Enter her woman).
Attend this lady to my wardrobe,
And do what she commands you.

[Exeunt Jane and waiting-woman.
Freb.
(looking after Jane, as she goes out, with admiration).
Oh! what a soul she bears!
See how she steps!
Nought but the native dignity of worth
E'er taught the moving form such noble grace.

Lady.
Such lofty mien, and high assumed gait,
I've seen ere now, and men have call'd it pride.

Freb.
No, 'faith! thou never didst, but oft indeed
The paltry imitation thou hast seen.
(Looking at her.)
How hang those trappings on thy motley gown?
They seem like garlands on a May-day queen,
Which hinds have dress'd in sport.

[Lady turns away displeased.
Freb.
Nay, do not frown; I spoke it but in haste;
For thou art lovely still in every garb.
But see, the guests assemble.

Enter groups of well-dressed people, who pay their compliments to Freberg and his lady; and, followed by her, pass into the inner apartment, where more company appear assembling, as if by another entry.
Freb.
(who remains on the front of the stage with a friend or two).
How loud the hum of this gay-meeting crowd!
'Tis like a bee-swarm in the noonday sun.
Music will quell the sound. Who waits without?
Music strike up.

[Music, and when it ceases, enter from the inner apartment Rezenvelt, with several gentlemen, all richly dressed.
Freb.
(to those just entered).
What, lively gallants, quit the field so soon?
Are there no beauties in that moving crowd
To fix your fancy?

Rez.
Ay, marry are there! men of ev'ry fancy
May in that moving crowd some fair one find
To suit their taste, though whimsical and strange,
As ever fancy own'd.
Beauty of every cast and shade is there,
From the perfection of a faultless form,
Down to the common, brown, unnoted maid,
Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown.

1st gent.
There is, indeed, a gay variety.

Rez.
And if the liberality of nature
Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms,
Blending in one the sweets of many plants,
So obstinately, strangely opposite,
As would have well defied all other art
But female cultivation. Aged youth,
With borrowed locks, in rosy chaplets bound,
Clothes her dim eye, parch'd lips, and skinny cheek
In most unlovely softness:
And youthful age, with fat round trackless face,
The downcast look of contemplation deep
Most pensively assumes.
Is it not even so? The native prude,
With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth,
Plays off the wild coquette's successful charms
With most unskilful pains; and the coquette,
In temporary crust of cold reserve,
Fixes her studied looks upon the ground,
Forbiddingly demure.

Freb.
Fy! thou art too severe.

Rez.
Say, rather, gentle.
I 'faith! the very dwarfs attempt to charm
With lofty airs of puny majesty;
While potent damsels, of a portly make,
Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid
Of gentle sympathy.
From all those diverse modes of dire assault,
He owns a heart of hardest adamant,
Who shall escape to-night.

Freb.
(to De Mon., who has entered during Rezenvelt' s speech, and heard the greatest part of it).
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
How pleasantly he gives his wit the rein,
Yet guides its wild career!

[De Mon. is silent.
Rez.
(smiling archly).
What, think you, Freberg, the same powerful spell
Of transformation reigns o'er all to-night?
Or that De Monfort is a woman turn'd,—
So widely from his native self to swerve,
As grace my folly with a smile of his?

De Mon.
Nay, think not, Rezenvelt, there is no smile
I can bestow on thee. There is a smile,
A smile of nature too, which I can spare,
And yet, perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for it.

[Smiles contemptuously.
Rez.
Not thank thee! It were surely most ungrateful
No thanks to pay for nobly giving me
What, well we see, has cost thee so much pain.
For nature hath her smiles of birth more painful
Than bitt'rest execrations.

Freb.
These idle words will lead us to disquiet:
Forbear, forbear, my friends! Go, Rezenvelt,
Accept the challenge of those lovely dames,
Who through the portal come with bolder steps
To claim your notice.

Enter a group of ladies from the other apartment, who walk slowly across the bottom of the stage, and return to it again. Rez. shrugs up his shoulders, as if unwilling to go.
1st gent.
(to Rez.)
Behold in sable veil a lady comes,
Whose noble air doth challenge fancy's skill
To suit it with a countenance as goodly.

[Pointing to Jane De Mon., who now enters in a thick black veil.
Rez.
Yes, this way lies attraction.
(To Freb.)
With permission—
[Going up to Jane.
Fair lady, though within that envious shroud
Your beauty deigns not to enlighten us,
We bid you welcome, and our beauties here
Will welcome you the more for such concealment.
With the permission of our noble host—

[Taking her hand, and leading her to the front of the stage.
Jane.
(to Freb.)
Pardon me this presumption, courteous sir:
I thus appear (pointing to her veil),
not careless of respect
Unto the generous lady of the feast.
Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is,
That, now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow.
Within the friendly cover of its shade
I only wish, unknown, again to see
One who, alas! is heedless of my pain.

De Mon.
Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil,
And give thy count'nance to the cheerful light.
Men now all soft and female beauty scorn,
And mock the gentle cares which aim to please.
It is most damnable! undo thy veil,
And think of him no more.

Jane.
I know it well: e'en to a proverb grown,
Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight:
But he, who has, alas! forsaken me,
Was the companion of my early days,
My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fellow.
Within our op'ning minds, with riper years,
The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung:
Through varied life our pride, our joys were one;
At the same tale we wept: he is my brother.

De Mon.
And he forsook thee?—No, I dare not curse him:
My heart upbraids me with a crime like his.

Jane.
Ah! do not thus distress a feeling heart.
All sisters are not to the soul entwin'd
With equal bands; thine has not watch'd for thee,
Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and woe,
As I have done for him.

De Mon.
(eagerly).
Ah! has she not?
By heav'n the sum of all thy kindly deeds
Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold,
Compar'd to that which I do owe her love.
Oh, pardon me! I mean not to offend—
I am too warm—but she of whom I speak
Is the dear sister of my earliest love;
In noble, virtuous worth to none a second:
And though behind those sable folds were hid
As fair a face as ever woman own'd,
Still would I say she is as fair as thou.
How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng,
I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told
Her name and lineage! yet within her house,
The virgin mother of an orphan race
Her dying parents left, this noble woman
Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit,
Despising all the blandishments of love;
While many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd,
Or, humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen.
Forgive, I pray you! O forgive this boasting!
In faith! I mean you no discourtesy.

Jane
(off her guard, in a soft natural tone of voice).
Oh, no! nor do me any.

De Mon.
What voice speaks now? Withdraw, withdraw this shade!
For if thy face bear semblance to thy voice,
I'll fall and worship thee. Pray! pray undo!

[Puts forth his hand eagerly to snatch away the veil, whilst she shrinks back, and Rezenvelt steps between to prevent him.
Rez.
Stand off: no hand shall lift this sacred veil.

De Mon.
What, dost thou think De Monfort fall'n so low,
That there may live a man beneath heav'n's roof,
Who dares to say, he shall not?

Rez.
He lives who dares to say—

Jane
(throwing back her veil, much alarmed, and rushing between them).
Forbear, forbear!

[Rezenvelt, very much struck, steps back respectfully, and makes her a low bow. De Monfort stands for a while motionless, gazing upon her, till she, looking expressively to him, extends her arms, and he, rushing into them, bursts into tears. Freberg seems very much pleased. The company then advancing from the inner apartment, gather about them, and the scene closes.

SCENE II.

De Monfort 's apartments. Enter De Monfort, with a disordered air, and his hand pressed upon his forehead, followed by Jane.
De Mon.
No more, my sister, urge me not again:
My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd.
From all participation of its thoughts
My heart recoils: I pray thee be contented.

Jane.
What, must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturb'd,
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
I turn aside to weep? O no! De Monfort!
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true entrusted friend I still shall be.

De Mon.
Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee.

Jane.
Then, fy upon it! fy upon it, Monfort!
There was a time when e'en with murder stain'd,
Had it been possible that such dire deed
Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous,
Thou wouldst have told it me.

De Mon.
So would I now—but ask of this no more.
All other trouble but the one I feel
I had disclos'd to thee. I pray thee spare me.
It is the secret weakness of my nature.

Jane.
Then secret let it be; I urge no farther.
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes,
So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood,
Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
And brave the storm together—
I have so long, as if by nature's right,
Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been,
I thought through life I should have so remain'd,
Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Monfort,
A humbler station will I take by thee:
The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps;
The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought;
The soother of those griefs I must not know:
This is mine office now: I ask no more.

De Mon.
Oh, Jane! thou dost constrain me with thy love!
Would I could tell it thee!

Jane.
Thou shalt not tell me. Nay I'll stop mine ears,
Nor from the yearnings of affection wring
What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, my brother.
I'll stay by thee; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee:
Pursue with thee the study of some art,
Or nobler science, that compels the mind
To steady thought progressive, driving forth
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies;
Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again;
Like one who, from dark visions of the night,
When th' active soul within its lifeless cell
Holds it own world, with dreadful fancy press'd
Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed,
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses heaven.

De Mon.
It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me still.

Jane.
Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too;
And be to it so close an adversary,
That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend,
I shall o'ercome it.

De Mon.
Thou most gen'rous woman!
Why do I treat thee thus? It should not be—
And yet I cannot—O that cursed villain!
He will not let me be the man I would.

Jane.
What sayst thou, brother? Oh! what words are these?
They have awak'd my soul to dreadful thoughts.
I do beseech thee, speak!
[He shakes his head, and turns from her; she following him.
By the affection thou didst ever bear me;
By the dear mem'ry of our infant days;
By kindred living ties, ay, and by those
Who sleep i' the tomb, and cannot call to thee,
I do conjure thee, speak!
[He waves her off with his hand and covers his face with the other, still turning from her.
Ah! wilt thou not?
(Assuming dignity.)
Then, if affection, most unwearied love,
Tried early, long, and never wanting found,
O'er gen'rous man hath more authority,
More rightful power than crown or sceptre give,
I do command thee.
[He throws himself into a chair, greatly agitated.
De Monfort, do not thus resist my love.
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees.
[Kneeling.
Alas! my brother!

[De Monfort starts up, and catching her in his arms, raises her up, then placing her in the chair, kneels at her feet.
De Mon.
Thus let him kneel who should the abased be,
And at thine honour'd feet confession make!
I'll tell thee all—but, oh! thou wilt despise me.
For in my breast a raging passion burns,
To which thy soul no sympathy will own—
A passion which hath made my nightly couch
A place of torment; and the light of day,
With the gay intercourse of social man,
Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence.
O Jane! thou wilt despise me.

Jane.
Say not so:
I never can despise thee, gentle brother.
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs
No kindly heart contemns.

De Mon
A lover, sayst thou?
No, it is hate! black, lasting, deadly hate!
Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace,
From social pleasure, from my native home,
To be a sullen wand'rer on the earth,
Avoiding all men, cursing and accurs'd.

Jane.
De Monfort, this is fiend-like, frightful, terrible!
What being, by th' Almighty Father form'd,
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou,
Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake,
Who art thyself his fellow?
Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clench'd hands.
Some sprite accurs'd within thy bosom mates
To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother!
Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy breast;
'Tis the degrader of a noble heart:
Curse it, and bid it part.

De Mon.
It will not part. (His hand on his breast.)
I've lodg'd it here too long:
With my first cares I felt its rankling touch;
I loath'd him when a boy.

Jane.
Whom didst thou say?

De Mon.
Oh! that detested Rezenvelt!
E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps
Of hostile breed, instinctively reverse,
Each 'gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge,
And frown'd defiance. As we onward pass'd
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art
And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd
In the affected carelessness of mirth,
Still more detestable and odious grew.
There is no living being on this earth
Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
With all his gay and damned merriment,
To those, by fortune or by merit plac'd
Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men,
As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes,
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
I could endure it; even as we bear
Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
I could endure it. But when honours came,
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride;
Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him;
Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!
It drove me frantic.—What! what would I give!
What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
So rankly do I loathe him!

Jane.
And would thy hatred crush the very man
Who gave to thee that life he might have ta'en;
That life which thou so rashly didst expose
To aim at his? Oh! this is horrible!

De Mon.
Ha! thou hast heard it, then? From all the world,
But most of all from thee, I thought it hid.

Jane.
I heard a secret whisper, and resolv'd
Upon the instant to return to thee.
Didst thou receive my letter?

De Mon.
I did! I did! 'twas that which drove me hither.
I could not bear to meet thine eye again.

Jane.
Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears,
I ever left thy house! These few past months,
These absent months, have brought us all this woe.
Had I remain'd with thee it had not been.
And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus.
You dar'd him to the field; both bravely fought;
He more adroit disarm'd you; courteously
Return'd the forfeit sword, which, so return'd,
You did refuse to use against him more;
And then, as says report, you parted friends.

De Mon.
When he disarm'd this curs'd, this worthless hand
Of its most worthless weapon, he but spar'd
From dev'lish pride, which now derives a bliss
In seeing me thus fetter'd, sham'd, subjected
With the vile favour of his poor forbearance;
While he securely sits with gibing brow,
And basely bates me like a muzzled cur
Who cannot turn again.—
Until that day, till that accursed day,
I knew not half the torment of this hell,
Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast him!

Jane.
O this is horrible! Forbear, forbear!
Lest heaven's vengeance light upon thy head,
For this most impious wish.

De Mon.
Then let it light.
Torments more fell than I have felt already
It cannot send. To be annihilated,
What all men shrink from; to be dust, be nothing,
Were bliss to me, compar'd to what I am!

Jane.
Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful words?

De Mon.
(raising his hands to heaven).
Let me but once upon his ruin look,
Then close mine eyes for ever!
[Jane, in great distress, staggers back, and supports herself upon the side scene. De Mon., alarmed, runs up to her with a softened voice.
Ha! how is this? thou'rt ill; thou'rt very pale.
What have I done to thee? Alas, alas!
I meant not to distress thee.—O my sister!

Jane
(shaking her head).
I cannot speak to thee.

De Mon.
I have kill'd thee.
Turn, turn thee not away! look on me still!
Oh! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister;
Look on me yet again.

Jane.
Thou too, De Monfort,
In better days, wert wont to be my pride.

De Mon.
I am a wretch, most wretched in myself,
And still more wretched in the pain I give.
O curse that villain! that detested villain!
He has spread mis'ry o'er my fated life:
He will undo us all.

Jane.
I've held my warfare through a troubled world,
And borne with steady mind my share of ill;
For thou wert then the helpmate of my toil.
But now the wane of life comes darkly on,
And hideous passion tears me from thy heart,
Blasting thy worth.—I cannot strive with this.

De Mon.
(affectionately).
What shall I do?

Jane.
Call up thy noble spirit;
Rouse all the gen'rous energy of virtue;
And with the strength of heaven-endued man,
Repel the hideous foe. Be great; be valiant.
O, if thou couldst! e'en shrouded as thou art
In all the sad infirmities of nature,
What a most noble creature wouldst thou be!

De Mon.
Ay, if I could: alas! alas! I cannot.

Jane.
Thou canst, thou mayst, thou wilt.
We shall not part till I have turn'd thy soul.

Enter Manuel.
De Mon.
Ha! some one enters. Wherefore com'st thou here?

Man.
Count Freberg waits your leisure.

De Mon.
(angrily).
Begone, begone!—I cannot see him now.

[Exit Manuel.
Jane.
Come to my closet; free from all intrusion,
I'll school thee there; and thou again shalt be
My willing pupil, and my gen'rous friend,
The noble Monfort I have lov'd so long,
And must not, will not lose.

De Mon.
Do as thou wilt; I will not grieve thee more.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Countess Freberg' s dressing-room. Enter the Countess dispirited and out of humour, and throws herself into a chair: enter, by the opposite side, Theresa.
Ther.
Madam, I am afraid you are unwell:
What is the matter? does your head ache?

Lady
(peevishly).
No,
'Tis not my head: concern thyself no more
With what concerns not thee.

Ther.
Go you abroad to-night?

Lady.
Yes, thinkest thou I'll stay and fret at home?

Ther.
Then please to say what you would choose to wear:—
One of your newest robes?

Lady.
I hate them all.

Ther.
Surely that purple scarf became you well,
With all those wreaths of richly-hanging flowers.
Did I not overhear them say, last night,
As from the crowded ball-room ladies pass'd,
How gay and handsome, in her costly dress,
The Countess Freberg look'd?

Lady.
Didst thou o'erhear it?

Ther.
I did, and more than this.

Lady.
Well, all are not so greatly prejudic'd;
All do not think me like a May-day queen,
Which peasants deck in sport.

Ther.
And who said this?

Lady
(putting her handkerchief to her eyes).
E'en my good lord, Theresa.

Ther.
He said it but in jest. He loves you well.

Lady.
I know as well as thou he loves me well.
But what of that! he takes in me no pride:
Elsewhere his praise and admiration go,
And Jane De Monfort is not mortal woman.

Ther.
The wondrous character this lady bears
For worth and excellence: from early youth
The friend and mother of her younger sisters,
Now greatly married, as I have been told,
From her most prudent care, may well excuse
The admiration of so good a man
As my good master is. And then, dear madam,
I must confess, when I myself did hear
How she was come through the rough winter's storm,
To seek and comfort an unhappy brother,
My heart beat kindly to her.

Lady.
Ay, ay, there is a charm in this I find:
But wherefore may she not have come as well
Through wintry storms to seek a lover too?

Ther.
No, madam, no, I could not think of this.

Lady.
That would reduce her in your eyes, mayhap,
To woman's level.—Now I see my vengeance!
I'll tell it round that she is hither come,
Under pretence of finding out De Monfort,
To meet with Rezenvelt. When Freberg hears it,
'Twill help, I ween, to break this magic charm.

Ther.
And say what is not, madam?

Lady.
How canst thou know that I shall say what is not?
'Tis like enough I shall but speak the truth.

Ther.
Ah, no! there is—

Lady.
Well, hold thy foolish tongue.
[Freberg's voice is heard without. After hesitating.
I will not see him now.

[Exit.
[Enter Freberg by the opposite side, passing on hastily.
Ther.
Pardon, my lord; I fear you are in haste.
Yet must I crave that you will give to me
The books my lady mention'd to you: she
Has charg'd me to remind you.

Freb.
I'm in haste.

[Passing on.
Ther.
Pray you, my lord: your countess wants them much:
The Lady Jane De Monfort ask'd them of her.

Freb.
(returning instantly).
Are they for her? I knew not this before.
I will, then, search them out immediately.
There is nought good or precious in my keeping,
That is not dearly honour'd by her use.

Ther.
My lord, what would your gentle countess say,
If she o'erheard her own request neglected,
Until supported by a name more potent?

Freb.
Thinkst thou she is a fool, my good Theresa,
Vainly to please herself with childish thoughts
Of matching what is matchless—Jane De Monfort?
Thinkst thou she is a fool, and cannot see,
That love and admiration often thrive
Though far apart?

[Re-enter lady with great violence.
Lady.
I am a fool, not to have seen full well,
That thy best pleasure in o'er-rating so
This lofty stranger, is to humble me,
And cast a dark'ning shadow o'er my head.
Ay, wherefore dost thou stare upon me thus?
Art thou asham'd that I have thus surpris'd thee?
Well mayst thou be so!

Freb.
True; thou rightly sayst.
Well may I be asham'd: not for the praise
Which I have ever openly bestow'd
On Monfort's noble sister; but that thus,
Like a poor mean and jealous listener,
She should be found, who is Count Freberg's wife.

Lady.
Oh, I am lost and ruin'd! hated, scorn'd!

[Pretending to faint.
Freb.
Alas, I have been too rough!
[Taking her hand and kissing it tenderly.
My gentle love! my own, my only love!
See, she revives again. How art thou, love?
Support her to her chamber, good Theresa.
I'll sit and watch by her. I've been too rough.

[Exeunt; lady supported by Freb. and Ther.

SCENE II.

De Monfort discovered sitting by a table reading. After a little time he lays down his book, and continues in a thoughtful posture Enter to him Jane De Monfort.
Jane.
Thanks, gentle brother.—
[Pointing to the book.
Thy willing mind has rightly been employ'd:
Did not thy heart warm at the fair display
Of peace and concord and forgiving love?

De Mon.
I know resentment may to love be turn'd,
Though keen and lasting, into love as strong:
And fiercest rivals in th' ensanguin'd field
Have cast their brandish'd weapons to the ground,
Joining their mailed breasts in close embrace,
With gen'rous impulse fir'd. I know right well
The darkest, fellest wrongs have been forgiven
Seventy times o'er from blessed heav'nly love:
I've heard of things like these; I've heard and wept.
But what is this to me?

Jane.
All, all, my brother!
It bids thee too that noble precept learn,
To love thine enemy.

De Mon.
Th' uplifted stroke that would a wretch destroy,
Gorg'd with my richest spoil, stain'd with my blood,
I would arrest, and cry, “Hold! hold! have mercy.”
But when the man most adverse to my nature,
Who e'en from childhood hath, with rude malevolence,
Withheld the fair respect all paid beside,
Turning my very praise into derision,
Who galls and presses me where'er I go,
Would claim the gen'rous feelings of my heart,
Nature herself doth lift her voice aloud,
And cry, “It is impossible!”

Jane.
(shaking her head).
Ah, Monfort, Monfort!

De Mon.
I can forgive th' envenom'd reptile's sting,
But hate his loathsome self.

Jane.
And canst thou do no more for love of heaven?

De Mon.
Alas! I cannot now so school my mind
As holy men have taught, nor search it truly:
But this, my Jane, I'll do for love of thee;
And more it is than crowns could win me to,
Or any power but thine. I'll see the man.
Th' indignant risings of abhorrent nature;
The stern contraction of my scowling brows,
That like the plant whose closing leaves do shrink
At hostile touch, still knit at his approach;
The crooked curving lip, by instinct taught,
In imitation of disgustful things,
To pout and swell, I strictly will repress;
And meet him with a tamed countenance,
E'en as a townsman, who would live at peace,
And pay him the respect his station claims.
I'll crave his pardon too for all offence
My dark and wayward temper may have done.
Nay more, I will confess myself his debtor
For the forbearance I have curs'd so oft:
Life spar'd by him, more horrid than the grave
With all its dark corruption! This I'll do.
Will it suffice thee? More than this I cannot.

Jane.
No more than this do I require of thee
In outward act, though in thy heart, my friend,
I hop'd a better change, and yet will hope.
I told thee Freberg had propos'd a meeting.

De Mon.
I know it well.

Jane.
And Rezenvelt consents.
He meets you here; so far he shows respect.

De Mon.
Well, let it be; the sooner past the better.

Jane.
I'm glad to hear you say so, for, in truth,
He has propos'd for it an early hour.
'Tis almost near his time; I came to tell you.

De Mon.
What, comes he here so soon? shame on his speed!
It is not decent thus to rush upon me.
He loves the secret pleasure he will feel
To see me thus subdued.

Jane.
O say not so! he comes with heart sincere.

De Mon.
Could we not meet elsewhere? from home—i' the fields,
Where other men—must I alone receive him?
Where is your agent, Freberg, and his friends,
That I must meet him here?
[Walks up and down, very much disturbed.
Now! didst thou say?—how goes the hour?—e'en now!
I would some other friend were first arriv'd.

Jane.
See, to thy wish come Freberg and his dame.

De Mon.
His lady too! why comes he not alone?
Must all the world upon our meeting stare?

Enter Count Freberg and his Countess.
Freb.
A happy morrow to my noble marquis,
And his most noble sister!

Jane.
Gen'rous Freberg,
Your face, methinks, forebodes a happy morn,
Open and cheerful. What of Rezenvelt?

Freb.
I left him at his home, prepar'd to follow:
He'll soon appear. (To De Monfort.)
And now, my worthy friend,
Give me your hand; this happy change delights me.

[De Monfort gives him his hand coldly, and they walk to the bottom of the stage together, in earnest discourse, whilst Jane and the Countess remain in the front.
Lady.
My dearest madam, will you pardon me?
I know Count Freberg's bus'ness with De Monfort,
And had a strong desire to visit you,
So much I wish the honour of your friendship;
For he retains no secret from mine ear.

Jane
(archly).
Knowing your prudence—you are welcome, madam;
So shall Count Freberg's lady ever be.

[De Monfort and Freberg returning towards the front of the stage, still engaged in discourse.
Freb.
He is indeed a man, within whose breast
Firm rectitude and honour hold their seat,
Though unadorned with that dignity
Which were their fittest garb. Now, on my life!
I know no truer heart than Rezenvelt.

De Mon.
Well, Freberg, well, there needs not all this pains
To garnish out his worth: let it suffice;
I am resolv'd I will respect the man,
As his fair station and repute demand.
Methinks I see not at your jolly feasts
The youthful knight, who sang so pleasantly.

Freb.
A pleasant circumstance detains him hence;
Pleasant to those who love high gen'rous deeds
Above the middle pitch of common minds;
And, though I have been sworn to secrecy,
Yet must I tell it thee.
This knight is near akin to Rezenvelt,
To whom an old relation, short while dead,
A good estate bequeathed, some leagues distant.
But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store,
Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain,
And gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd
To this young man, blood of the same degree
To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gifts,
Who is from hence to take possession of it:
Was it not nobly done?

De Mon.
'Twas right and honourable.
This morning is oppressive, warm, and heavy:
There hangs a foggy closeness in the air;
Dost thou not feel it?

Freb.
O no! to think upon a gen'rous deed
Expands my soul, and makes me lightly breathe.

De Mon.
Who gives the feast to-night? His name escapes me.
You say I am invited.

Freb.
Old Count Waterlan.
In honour of your townsman's gen'rous gift,
He spreads the board.

De Mon.
He is too old to revel with the gay.

Freb.
But not too old is he to honour virtue.
I shall partake of it with open soul;
For, on my honest faith, of living men
I know not one, for talents, honour, worth,
That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt.

De Mon.
How virtuous he hath been in three short days!

Freb.
Nay, longer, marquis; but my friendship rests
Upon the good report of other men,
And that has told me much.
[De Monfort aside, going some steps hastily from Freberg, and rending his cloak with agitation as he goes.
Would he were come! by heav'n I would he were!
This fool besets me so.
[Suddenly correcting himself, and joining the ladies, who have retired to the bottom of the stage, he speaks to Countess Freberg with affected cheerfulness.
The sprightly dames of Amberg rise by times,
Untarnish'd with the vigils of the night.

Lady.
Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so.

De Mon.
He does not rashly praise who praises you;
For he were dull indeed—

[Stopping short, as if he heard something.
Lady.
How dull indeed?

De Mon.
I should have said—It has escap'd me now—

[Listening again, as if he heard something.
Jane
(to De Mon.)
What, hear you aught?

De Mon.
(hastily).
'Tis nothing.

Lady
(to De Mon.)
Nay, do not let me lose it so, my lord.
Some fair one has bewitch'd your memory,
And robs me of the half-form'd compliment.

Jane.
Half-utter'd praise is to the curious mind
As to the eye half-veiled beauty is,
More precious than the whole. Pray pardon him.
Some one approaches.

[Listening.
Freb.
No, no, it is a servant who ascends;
He will not come so soon.

De Mon.
(off his guard).
'Tis Rezenvelt: I heard his well-known foot,
From the first staircase, mounting step by step.

Freb.
How quick an ear thou hast for distant sound!
I heard him not.

[De Monfort looks embarrassed, and is silent.
Enter Rezenvelt.
[De Monfort, recovering himself, goes up to receive Rezenvelt, who meets him with a cheerful countenance.
De Mon.
(to Rez)
I am, my lord, beholden to you greatly.
This ready visit makes me much your debtor.

Rez.
Then may such debts between us, noble marquis,
Be oft incurr'd, and often paid again!
(To Jane.)
Madam, I am devoted to your service,
And ev'ry wish of yours commands my will.
(To Countess.)
Lady, good morning. (To Freb.)
Well, my gentle friend,
You see I have not linger'd long behind.

Freb.
No, thou art sooner than I look'd for thee.

Rez.
A willing heart adds feather to the heel,
And makes the clown a winged Mercury.

De Mon.
Then let me say, that, with a grateful mind,
I do receive these tokens of good will;
And must regret, that, in my wayward moods,
I have too oft forgot the due regard
Your rank and talents claim.

Rez.
No, no, De Monfort,
You have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit,
Which makes me too neglectful of respect.
Let us be friends, and think of this no more.

Freb.
Ay, let it rest with the departed shades
Of things which are no more; whilst lovely concord,
Follow'd by friendship sweet, and firm esteem,
Your future days enrich. O heavenly friendship!
Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men,
By thee conjoin'd, to great and glorious deeds;
As two dark clouds, when mix'd in middle air,
With vivid lightnings flash, and roar sublime.
Talk not of what is past, but future love.

De Mon.
(with dignity).
No, Freberg, no, it must not. (To Rezenvelt.)
No, my lord,
I will not offer you an hand of concord,
And poorly hide the motives which constrain me.
I would that, not alone, these present friends,
But ev'ry soul in Amberg were assembled,
That I, before them all, might here declare
I owe my spared life to your forbearance.
(Holding out his hand.)
Take this from one who boasts no feeling warmth,
But never will deceive.

[Jane smiles upon De Monfort with great approbation, and Rezenvelt runs up to him with open arms.
Rez.
Away with hands! I'll have thee to my breast.
Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit!

De Mon.
(shrinking back from him).
Nay, if you please, I am not so prepar'd—
My nature is of temperature too cold—
I pray you pardon me
(Jane's countenance changes).
But take this hand, the token of respect;
The token of a will inclin'd to concord;
The token of a mind, that bears within
A sense impressive of the debt it owes you:
And cursed be its power, unnerv'd its strength,
If e'er again it shall be lifted up
To do you any harm!

Rez.
Well, be it so, De Monfort, I'm contented;
I'll take thy hand, since I can have no more.
(Carelessly.)
I take of worthy men whate'er they give.
Their heart I gladly take, if not their hand;
If that too is withheld, a courteous word,
Or the civility of placid looks:
And, if e'en these are too great favours deem'd,
'Faith, I can set me down contentedly
With plain and homely greeting, or “God save ye!”

De Mon.
(aside, starting away from him some paces).
By the good light, he makes a jest of it!

[Jane seems greatly distressed, and Freberg endeavours to cheer her.
Freb.
(to Jane).
Cheer up, my noble friend; all will go well;
For friendship is no plant of hasty growth.
Though rooted in esteem's deep soil, the slow
And gradual culture of kind intercourse
Must bring it to perfection.
(To the Countess.)
My love, the morning, now, is far advane'd;
Our friends elsewhere expect us; take your leave.

Lady
(to Jane).
Farewell, dear madam, till the evening hour.

Freb.
(to De Mon.)
Good day, De Monfort.
(To Jane.)
Most devoutly yours.

Rez.
(to Freb.)
Go not too fast, for I will follow you. [Exeunt Freberg and his lady.
(To Jane.)

The Lady Jane is yet a stranger here:
She might, perhaps, in this your ancient city
Find somewhat worth her notice.

Jane.
I thank you, marquis, I am much engag'd;
I go not out to-day.

Rez.
Then fare ye well! I see I cannot now
Be the proud man who shall escort you forth,
And show to all the world my proudest boast,
The notice and respect of Jane de Monfort.

De Mon.
(aside impatiently).
He says farewell, and goes not!

Jane
(to Rez.).
You do me honour.

Rez.
Madam, adieu! (To Jane.)
Good morning, noble marquis.

[Jane and De Monfort look expressively to one another, without speaking, and then exeunt severally.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A hall or antechamber, with the folding doors of an inner apartment open, which discovers the guests rising from a banquet. They enter and pass over the stage, and exeunt; and after them enter Rezenvelt and Freberg.
Freb.
Alas, my Rezenvelt!
I vainly hop'd the hand of gentle peace,
From this day's reconciliation sprung,
These rude unseemly jarrings had subdu'd;
But I have mark'd, e'en at the social board,
Such looks, such words, such tones, such untold things,
Too plainly told, 'twixt you and Monfort pass,
That I must now despair.
Yet who could think, two minds so much refin'd,
So near in excellence, should be remov'd,
So far remov'd, in gen'rous sympathy?

Rez.
Ay, far remov'd indeed!

Freb.
And yet, methought, he made a noble effort,
And with a manly plainness bravely told
The galling debt he owes to your forbearance.

Rez.
'Faith! so he did, and so did I receive it;
When, with spread arms, and heart e'en mov'd to tears,
I frankly proffer'd him a friend's embrace:
And, I declare, had he as such receiv'd it,
I from that very moment had forborne
All opposition, pride-provoking jest,
Contemning carelessness, and all offence;
And had caress'd him as a worthy heart,
From native weakness such indulgence claiming.
But since he proudly thinks that cold respect,
The formal tokens of his lordly favour,
So precious are, that I would sue for them
As fair distinction in the public eye,
Forgetting former wrongs, I spurn it all.
And but that I do bear that noble woman,
His worthy, his incomparable sister,
Such fix'd, profound regard, I would expose him;
And, as a mighty bull, in senseless rage,
Rous'd at the baiter's will, with wretched rags
Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows,
I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit,
With all his deep and manly faculties,
The scorn and laugh of fools.

Freb.
For heaven's sake, my friend, restrain your wrath!
For what has Monfort done of wrong to you,
Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel,
Which you confess from slight occasion rose,
That in your breasts such dark resentment dwells,
So fix'd, so hopeless?

Rez.
O! from our youth he has distinguish'd me
With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust.
For e'en in boyish sports I still oppos'd
His proud pretensions to pre-eminence;
Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give
That fulsome adulation of applause
A senseless crowd bestow'd. Though poor in fortune,
I still would smile at vain assuming wealth:
But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd
Riches and splendour equal to his own,
Though I, in truth, despise such poor distinction,
Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him,
And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit,
And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful rage,
From small offence he rear'd a quarrel with me,
And dar'd me to the field. The rest you know.
In short, I still have been th' opposing rock,
O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride
Hath foam'd and fretted. Seest thou how it is?

Freb.
Too well I see, and warn thee to beware.
Such streams have oft, by swelling floods surcharg'd,
Borne down, with sudden and impetuous force,
The yet unshaken stone of opposition,
Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing course.
I pray thee, friend, beware.

Rez.
Thou canst not mean—he will not murder me?

Freb.
What a proud heart, with such dark passion toss'd,
May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive,
I will not dare to say.

Rez.
Ha, ha! thou knowst him not.
Full often have I mark'd it in his youth,
And could have almost lov'd him for the weakness:
He's form'd with such antipathy, by nature,
To all infliction of corporeal pain,
To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood,
He cannot if he would.

Freb.
Then fie upon thee!
It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus.
But let us part: we'll talk of this again.
Something approaches.—We are here too long.

Rez.
Well, then, to-morrow I'll attend your call.
Here lies my way. Good night.

[Exit.
Enter Conrad.
Con.
Forgive, I pray, my lord, a stranger's boldness.
I have presum'd to wait your leisure here,
Though at so late an hour.

Freb.
But who art thou?

Con.
My name is Conrad, sir,
A humble suitor to your honour's goodness,
Who is the more embolden'd to presume,
In that De Monfort's brave and noble marquis
Is so much fam'd for good and gen'rous deeds.

Freb.
You are mistaken, I am not the man.

Con.
Then, pardon me: I thought I could not err;
That mien so dignified, that piercing eye
Assur'd me it was he.

Freb.
My name is not De Monfort, courteous stranger;
But, if you have a favour to request,
I may, with him, perhaps, befriend your suit.

Con.
I thank your honour, but I have a friend
Who will commend me to De Monfort's favour:
The Marquis Rezenvelt has known me long,
Who, says report, will soon become his brother.

Freb.
If thou wouldst seek thy ruin from De Monfort,
The name of Rezenvelt employ, and prosper;
But, if aught good, use any name but his.

Con.
How may this be?

Freb.
I cannot now explain.
Early to-morrow call upon Count Freberg;
So am I call'd, each burgher knows my house,
And there instruct me how to do you service.
Good night.

[Exit.
Con.
(alone).
Well, this mistake may be of service to me:
And yet my bus'ness I will not unfold
To this mild, ready, promise-making courtier;
I've been by such too oft deceiv'd already.
But if such violent enmity exist
Between De Monfort and this Rezenvelt,
He'll prove my advocate by opposition.
For if De Monfort would reject my suit,
Being the man whom Rezenvelt esteems,
Being the man he hates, a cord as strong,
Will he not favour me? I'll think of this.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A lower apartment in Jerome's house, with a wide folding glass door, looking into a garden, where the trees and shrubs are brown and leafless. Enter De Monfort with a thoughtful frowning aspect, and paces slowly across the stage, Jerome following behind him, with a timid step. De Monfort hearing him, turns suddenly about.
De Mon.
(angrily).
Who follows me to this sequester'd room?

Jer.
I have presum'd, my lord. 'Tis somewhat late:
I am inform'd you eat at home to-night;
Here is a list of all the dainty fare
My busy search has found; please to peruse it.

De Mon.
Leave me: begone! Put hemlock in thy soup,
Or deadly night-shade, or rank hellebore,
And I will mess upon it.

Jer.
Heaven forbid!
Your honour's life is all too precious, sure.

De Mon.
(sternly).
Did I not say begone?

Jer.
Pardon, my lord, I'm old, and oft forget.

[Exit.
De Mon.
(looking after him, as if his heart smote him).
Why will they thus mistime their foolish zeal,
That I must be so stern?
O, that I were upon some desert coast!
Where howling tempests and the lashing tide
Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet;
As the storm-beaten trav'ller droops his head,
In heavy, dull, lethargic weariness,
And, 'mid the roar of jarring elements,
Sleeps to awake no more.
What am I grown? all things are hateful to me. Enter Manuel.
(Stamping with his foot.)

Who bids thee break upon my privacy?

Man.
Nay, good my lord! I heard you speak aloud,
And dreamt not surely that you were alone.

De Mon.
What, dost thou watch, and pin thine ears to holes,
To catch those exclamations of the soul,
Which heaven alone should hear? Who hir'd thee, pray?
Who basely hir'd thee for a task like this?

Man.
My lord, I cannot hold. For fifteen years,
Long-troubled years, I have your servant been,
Nor hath the proudest lord in all the realm,
With firmer, with more honourable faith
His sov'reign serv'd, than I have served you;
But if my honesty be doubted now,
Let him who is more faithful take my place,
And serve you better.

De Mon.
Well, be it as thou wilt. Away with thee!
Thy loud-mouth'd boasting is no rule for me
To judge thy merit by.

Enter Jerome hastily, and pulls Manuel away.
Jer.
Come, Manuel, come away; thou art not wise.
The stranger must depart and come again,
For now his honour will not be disturb'd.

[Exit Manuel sulkily.
De Mon.
A stranger, saidst thou?

[Drops his handkerchief.
Jer.
I did, good sir, but he shall go away;
You shall not be disturb'd.
[Stooping to lift the handkerchief.
You have dropp'd somewhat.

De Mon.
(preventing him).
Nay, do not stoop, my friend, I pray thee not!
Thou art too old to stoop.
I'm much indebted to thee.—Take this ring—
I love thee better than I seem to do.
I pray thee do it—thank me not.—What stranger?

Jer.
A man who does most earnestly intreat
To see your honour; but I know him not.

De Mon.
Then let him enter.

[Exit Jerome.
A pause. Enter Conrad.
De Mon.
You are the stranger who would speak with me?

Con.
I am so far unfortunate, my lord.
That, though my fortune on your favour hangs,
I am to you a stranger.

De Mon.
How may this be? what can I do for you?,

Con.
Since thus your lordship does so frankly ask
The tiresome preface of apology
I will forbear, and tell my tale at once,
In plodding drudgery I've spent my youth,
A careful penman in another's office;
And now, my master and employer dead,
They seek to set a stripling o'er my head,
And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age,
Because I have no friend to take my part.
It is an office in your native town,
For I am come from thence, and I am told
You can procure it for me. Thus, my lord,
From the repute of goodness which you bear,
I have presum'd to beg.

De Mon.
They have befool'd thee with a false report.

Con.
Alas! I see it is in vain to plead,
Your mind is prepossess'd against a wretch,
Who has, unfortunately for his weal,
Offended the revengeful Rezenvelt.

De Mon.
What dost thou say?

Con.
What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid.
Who will believe my wrongs if I complain?
I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe,
Who will believe my wrongs?

De Mon.
(eagerly catching him by the coat).
I will believe them!
Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds,
In ancient record told, I would believe them!
Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness
That he has put upon thee be conceal'd.
Speak boldly, tell it all; for, by the light!
I'll be thy friend, I'll be thy warmest friend,
If he has done thee wrong.

Con.
Nay, pardon me, it were not well advis'd,
If I should speak so freely of the man
Who will so soon your nearest kinsman be.

De Mon.
What canst thou mean by this?

Con.
That Marquis Rezenvelt
Has pledg'd his faith unto your noble sister,
And soon will be the husband of her choice.
So I am told, and so the world believes.

De Mon.
'Tis false! 'tis basely false!
What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue
A tale so damn'd?—It chokes my breath—
(Stamping with his foot.)
What wretch did tell it thee?

Con.
Nay, every one with whom I have convers'd
Has held the same discourse. I judge it not.
But you, my lord, who with the lady dwell.
You best can tell what her deportment speaks;
Whether her conduct and unguarded words
Belie such rumour.

[De Monfort pauses, staggers backwards, and sinks into a chair; then starting up hastily.
De Mon.
Where am I now? 'midst all the cursed thoughts,
That on my soul like stinging scorpions prey'd,
This never came before—Oh, if it be!
The thought will drive me mad.—Was it for this
She urg'd her warm request on bended knee?
Alas! I wept, and thought of sister's love,
No damned love like this.
Fell devil! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid
To work such sorcery! (Pauses.)
I'll not believe it.
I must have proof clear as the noon-day sun
For such foul charge as this! Who waits without?

[Paces up and down, furiously agitated.
Con.
(aside).
What have I done? I've carried this too far.
I've rous'd a fierce ungovernable madman.

Enter Jerome.
De Mon.
(in a loud angry voice).
Where did she go, at such an early hour,
And with such slight attendance?

Jer.
Of whom inquires your honour?

De Mon.
Why, of your lady. Said I not my sister?

Jer.
The Lady Jane, your sister?

De Mon.
(in a faltering voice).
Yes, I did call her so.

Jer.
In truth, I cannot tell you where she went.
E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard-by,
I saw her through the garden-gate return.
The Marquis Rezenvelt, and Freberg's countess,
Are in her company. This way they come,
As being nearer to the back apartments;
But I shall stop them, if it be your will,
And bid them enter here.

De Mon.
No, stop them not. I will remain unseen,
And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little.

[Conrad seems alarmed, and steals off unnoticed. De Monfort grasps Jerome tightly by the hand, and drawing back with him two or three steps, not to be seen from the garden, waits in silence, with his eyes fixed on the glass door.
De Mon.
I hear their footsteps on the grating sand:
How like the croaking of a carrion bird,
That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear!
And now she speaks—her voice sounds cheerly too—
Curs'd be their mirth!—
Now, now, they come; keep closer still! keep steady!

[Taking hold of Jerome with both hands.
Jer.
My lord, you tremble much.

De Mon.
What, do I shake?

Jer.
You do, in truth, and your teeth chatter too.

De Mon.
See! see they come! he strutting by her side.
[Jane, Rezenvelt, and Countess Freberg appear through the glass door, pursuing their way up a short walk leading to the other wing of the house.
See, his audacious face he turns to hers;
Utt'ring with confidence some nauseous jest.
And she endures it too—Oh! this looks vilely!
Ha! mark that courteous motion of his arm!—
What does he mean?—he dares not take her hand!
(Pauses and looks eagerly.)
By heaven and hell he does!

[Letting go his hold of Jerome, he throws out his hands vehemently, and thereby pushes him against the scene.
Jer.
Oh! I am stunn'd! my head is crack'd in twain:
Your honour does forget how old I am.

De Mon.
Well, well, the wall is harder than I wist.
Begone, and whine within. [Exit Jerome, with a sad rueful countenance.
[De Monfort comes forward to the front of the stage, and makes a long pause expressive of great agony of mind.

It must be so: each passing circumstance;
Her hasty journey here; her keen distress
Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I express'd;
Ay, and that damned reconciliation,
With tears extorted from me: Oh, too well!
All, all too well bespeak the shameful tale.
I should have thought of heaven and hell conjoin'd,
The morning star mix'd with infernal fire,
Ere I had thought of this—
Hell's blackest magic, in the midnight hour,
With horrid spells and incantation dire,
Such combination opposite unseemly,
Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base,
Did ne'er produce—But every thing is possible,
So as it may my misery enhance!
Oh! I did love her with such pride of soul!
When other men, in gay pursuit of love,
Each beauty follow'd, by her side I stay'd;
Far prouder of a brother's station there,
Than all the favours favour'd lovers boast.
We quarrell'd once, and when I could no more
The alter'd coldness of her eye endure,
I slipp'd o'tip-toe to her chamber-door;
And when she ask'd who gently knock'd—Oh! oh!
Who could have thought of this?
[Throws himself into a chair, covers his face with his hand, and bursts into tears. After some time, he starts up from his seat furiously.
Hell's direst torment seize the infernal villain!
Detested of my soul! I will have vengeance!
I'll crush thy swelling pride—I'll still thy vaunting—
I'll do a deed of blood!—Why shrink I thus?
If by some spell or magic sympathy,
Piercing the lifeless figure on that wall
Could pierce his bosom too, would I not cast it?
[Throwing a dagger against the wall.
Shall groans and blood affright me? No, I'll do it.
Though gasping life beneath my pressure heav'd,
And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink,
I would not flinch.—Fie, this recoiling nature!
O that his sever'd limbs were strew'd in air,
So as I saw it not! Enter Rezenvelt behind from the glass door. De Monfort turns round, and on seeing him, starts back, then drawing his sword, rushes furiously upon him.

Detested robber! now all forms are over;
Now open villainy, now open hate!
Defend thy life!

Rez.
De Monfort, thou art mad.

De Mon.
Speak not, but draw. Now for thy hated life!
[They fight: Rezenvelt parries his thrusts with great skill, and at last disarms him.
Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists thee.

Rez.
No, Monfort, but I'll take away your sword,
Not as a mark of disrespect to you,
But for your safety. By to-morrow's eve
I'll call on you myself and give it back;
And then, if I am charg'd with any wrong,
I'll justify myself. Farewell, strange man!

[Exit.
[De Monfort stands for some time quite motionless, like one stupified. Enters to him a servant: he starts.
De Mon.
Ha! who art thou?

Ser.
'Tis I, an' please your honour.

De Mon.
(staring wildly at him).
who art thou?

Ser.
Your servant Jacques.

De Mon.
Indeed I knew thee not.
Now leave me, and when Rezenvelt is gone,
Return and let me know.

Ser.
He's gone already.

De Mon.
How! is he gone so soon?

Ser.
His servant told me,
He was in haste to go; as night comes on,
And at the evening hour he purposes
To visit some old friend, whose lonely mansion
Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood,
In which a convent is of holy nuns,
Who chaunt this night a requiem to the soul
Of a departed sister. For so well
He loves such solemn music, he has order'd
His horses onward by the usual road,
Meaning on foot to cross the wood alone.
So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth!
I would not walk through those wild dells alone
For all his wealth. For there, as I have heard,
Foul murders have been done, and ravens scream;
And things unearthly, stalking through the night,
Have scar'd the lonely trav'ller from his wits.
[De Monfort stands fixed in thought.
I've ta'en your steed, an' please you, from the field,
And wait your farther orders.
[De Monfort heeds him not.
His hoofs are sound, and where the saddle gall'd,
Begins to mend. What further must be done?
[De Monfort still heeds him not.
His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay?

De Mon.
(eagerly, as he is going).
He goes alone, saidst thou?

Ser.
His servant told me so.

De Mon.
And at what hour?

Ser.
He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of eve.
Save you, my lord! how chang'd your count'nance is!
Are you not well?

De Mon.
Yes, I am well: begone,
And wait my orders by the city wall:
I'll wend that way, and speak to thee again.

[Exit servant.
[De Monfort walks rapidly two or three times across the stage; then seizes his dagger from the wall, looks steadfastly at its point, and exit hastily.

SCENE III.

Moonlight. A wild path in a wood, shaded with trees. Enter De Monfort, with a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if he listened to something.
De Mon.
How hollow groans the earth beneath my tread!
Is there an echo here? Methinks it sounds
As though some heavy footstep follow'd me.
I will advance no farther.
Deep settled shadows rest across the path,
And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot.
O that a tenfold gloom did cover it,
That'mid the murky darkness I might strike!
As in the wild confusion of a dream,
Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass,
As though they pass'd not; nor impress the mind
With the fix'd clearness of reality. [An owl is heard screaming near him.
(Starting.)

What sound is that?
[Listens, and the owl cries again.
It is the screech-owl's cry.
Foul bird of night! what spirit guides thee here?
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror?
I've heard of this.
[Pauses and listens.
How those fall'n leaves so rustle on the path,
With whisp'ring noise, as though the earth around me
Did utter secret things.
The distant river, too, bears to mine ear
A dismal wailing. O mysterious night!
Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou.
A distant gath'ring blast sounds through the wood,
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky:
O! that a storm would rise, a raging storm;
Amidst the roar of warring elements
I'd lift my hand and strike! but this pale light,
The calm distinctness of each stilly thing,
Is terrible (starting).
Footsteps, and near me too!
He comes! he comes! I'll watch him farther on—
I cannot do it here.

[Exit.
Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly from the bottom of the stage: as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl screams again.
Rez.
Ha! does the night-bird greet me on my way?
How much his hooting is in harmony
With such a scene as this! I like it well.
Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour,
I've leant my back against some knotted oak,
And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call
He answer would return, and, through the gloom,
We friendly converse held.
Between me and the star-bespangled sky,
Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave,
And through them looks the pale and placid moon.
How like a crocodile, or winged snake,
Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length!
And now transformed by the passing wind,
Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus.
Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue
Comes swiftly after.—
A hollow murm'ring wind sounds through the trees;
I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm.
I must not linger here—
[A bell heard at some distance.
The convent bell.
'Tis distant still: it tells their hour of prayer.
It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze,
That, to a fearful superstitious mind,
In such a scene, would like a death-knell come.

[Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The inside of a convent chapel, of old Gothic architecture, almost dark: two torches only are seen at a distance, burning over a newly covered grave. Lightning is seen flashing through the windows, and thunder heard, with the sound of wind beating upon the building. Enter two monks.
1st monk.
The storm increases: hark how dismally
It howls along the cloisters. How goes time?

2nd monk.
It is the hour: I hear them near at hand:
And when the solemn requiem has been sung
For the departed sister, we'll retire.
Yet, should this tempest still more violent grow,
We'll beg a friendly shelter till the morn.

1st monk.
See, the procession enters: let us join.

[The organ strikes up a solemn prelude. Enter a procession of nuns, with the abbess, bearing torches. After compassing the grave twice, and remaining there some time, the organ plays a grand dirge, while they stand round the grave.
Enter a young pensioner, with a wild terrified look, her hair and dress all scattered, and rushes forward amongst them.
Abb.
Why com'st thou here, with such disorder'd looks,
To break upon our sad solemnity?

Pen.
Oh! I did hear through the receding blast,
Such horrid cries! they made my blood run chill.

Abb.
'Tis but the varied voices of the storm,
Which many times will sound like distant screams:
It has deceiv'd thee.

Pen.
O no, for twice it call'd, so loudly call'd,
With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature;
And murder! murder! was the dreadful cry.
A third time it return'd with feeble strength,
But o' the sudden ceas'd, as though the words
Were smother'd rudely in the grappled throat,
And all was still again, save the wild blast
Which at a distance growl'd.—
Oh! it will never from my mind depart!
That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd:
For then, so near, some horrid deed was done,
And none to rescue.

Abb.
Where didst thou hear it?

Pen.
In the higher cells,
As now a window, open'd by the storm,
I did attempt to close.

1st monk.
I wish our brother Bernard were arriv'd;
He is upon his way.

Abb.
Be not alarm'd; it still may be deception.
'Tis meet we finish our solemnity,
Nor show neglect unto the honour'd dead.

[Gives a sign, and the organ plays again: just as it ceases, a loud knocking is heard without.
Abb.
Ha! who may this be? hush!

[Knocking heard again.
2d monk.
It is the knock of one in furious haste.
Hush! hush! What footsteps come? Ha! brother Bernard.

Enter Bernard bearing a lantern.
1st monk.
See, what a look he wears of stiffen'd fear!
Where hast thou been, good brother?

Bern.
I've seen a horrid sight!
[All gathering round him and speaking at once.
What hast thou seen?

Bern.
As on I hasten'd, bearing thus my light,
Across the path, not fifty paces off,
I saw a murder'd corse, stretch'd on his back,
Smear'd with new blood, as though but freshly slain.

Abb.
A man or woman was't?

Bern.
A man, a man!

Abb.
Didst thou examine if within its breast
There yet were lodg'd some small remains of life?
Was it quite dead?

Bern.
Nought in the grave is deader.
I look'd but once, yet life did never lodge
In any form so laid.
A chilly horror seiz'd me, and I fled.

1st monk.
And does the face seem all unknown to thee?

Bern.
The face! I would not on the face have look'd
For e'en a kingdom's wealth, for all the world!
O no! the bloody neck, the bloody neck!

[Shaking his head and shuddering with horror. Loud knocking heard without.
Sist.
Good mercy! who comes next?

Bern.
Not far behind
I left our brother Thomas on the road;
But then he did repent him as he went,
And threatened to return.

2d monk.
See, here he comes.

Enter Brother Thomas, with a wild terrified look.
1st monk.
How wild he looks!

Bern.
(going up to him eagerly).
What, hast thou seen it too?

Thom.
Yes, yes! it glared upon me as it pass'd.

Bern.
What glared upon thee?
[All gathering round Thomas, and speaking at once.
O! what hast thou seen?

Thom.
As striving with the blast I onward came,
Turning my feeble lantern from the wind,
Its light upon a dreadful visage gleam'd,
Which paus'd and look'd upon me as it pass'd;
But such a look, such wildness of despair,
Such horror-strained features, never yet
Did earthly visage show. I shrank and shudder'd.
If a damn'd spirit may to earth return,
I've seen it.

Bern.
Was there any blood upon it?

Thom.
Nay, as it pass'd, I did not see its form;
Nought but the horrid face.

Bern.
It is the murderer.

1st monk.
What way went it?

Thom.
I durst not look till I had pass'd it far.
Then turning round, upon the rising bank,
I saw, between me and the paly sky,
A dusky form, tossing and agitated.
I stopp'd to mark it; but, in truth, I found
'Twas but a sapling bending to the wind,
And so I onward hied, and look'd no more.

1st monk.
But we must look to't; we must follow it:
Our duty so commands. (To 2d monk.)
Will you go, brother?
(To Bernard.)
And you, good Bernard?

Bern.
If I needs must go.

1st monk.
Come, we must all go.

Abb.
Heaven be with you, then!

[Exeunt monks.
Pen.
Amen! amen! Good heav'n, be with us all!
O what a dreadful night!

Abb.
Daughters, retire; peace to the peaceful dead!
Our solemn ceremony now is finish'd.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A large room in the convent, very dark. Enter the abbess, young pensioner bearing a light, and several nuns; she sets down the light on a table at the bottom of the stage, so that the room is still very gloomy.
Abb.
They have been longer absent than I thought:
I fear he has escap'd them.

1st nun.
Heaven forbid!

Pen.
No, no, found out foul murder ever is,
And the foul murderer too.

2d nun.
The good Saint Francis will direct their search;
The blood so near this holy convent shed
For threefold vengeance calls.

Abb.
I hear a noise within the inner court—
They are return'd (listening);
and Bernard's voice I hear:
They are return'd.

Pen.
Why do I tremble so?
It is not I who ought to tremble thus.

2d nun.
I hear them at the door.

Bern.
(without).
Open the door, I pray thee, brother Thomas;
I cannot now unhand the prisoner.
(All speak together, shrinking back from the door, and staring upon one another.)
He is with them! [A folding door at the bottom of the stage is opened, and enter Bernard, Thomas, and the other two monks, carrying lanterns in their hands, and bringing in De Monfort. They are likewise followed by other monks. As they lead forward De Monfort, the light is turned away, so that he is seen obscurely; but when they come to the front of the stage, they turn the light side of their lanterns on him at once, and his face is seen in all the strengthened horror of despair, with his hands and clothes bloody.
(Abbess and nuns speak at once, and start back).

Holy saints be with us!

Bern.
(to abb.)
Behold the man of blood!

Abb.
Of misery too; I cannot look upon him.

Bern.
(to nuns).
Nay, holy sisters, turn not thus away.
Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard you:
For from his mouth we have no utt'rance heard,
Save one deep groan and smother'd exclamation,
When first we seiz'd him.

Abb.
(to De Mon.)
Most miserable man, how art thou thus?
[Pauses.
Thy tongue is silent, but those bloody hands
Do witness horrid things. What is thy name?

De Mon.
(roused, looks steadfastly at the abbess for some time; then speaking in a short hurried voice).
I have no name.

Abb.
(to Bern.)
Do it thyself; I'll speak to him no more.

Pen.
O holy saints! that this should be the man
Who did against his fellow lift the stroke,
Whilst he so loudly call'd.—
Still in my ears it rings: O murder! murder!

De Mon.
(starting).
He calls again!

Pen.
No, he did call, but now his voice is still'd.
'Tis past.

De Mon.
'Tis past.

Pen.
Yes, it is past! art thou not he who did it?

[De Monfort utters a deep groan, and is supported from falling by the monks. A noise is heard without.
Abb.
What noise is this of heavy lumb'ring steps,
Like men who with a weighty burthen come?

Bern.
It is the body: I have orders given
That here it should be laid.

[Enter men bearing the body of Rezenvelt, covered with a white cloth, and set it down in the middle of the room: they then uncover it. De Monfort stands fixed and motionless with horror, only that a sudden shivering seems to pass over him when they uncover the corpse. The abbess and nuns shrink back and retire to some distance, all the rest fixing their eyes steadfastly upon De Monfort. A long pause.
Bern.
(to De Mon.)
Seest thou the lifeless corpse, those bloody wounds?
See how he lies, who but so shortly since
A living creature was, with all the powers
Of sense, and motion, and humanity!
Oh! what a heart had he who did this deed!

1st monk
(looking at the body).
How hard those teeth against the lips are press'd,
As though he struggled still!

2nd monk.
The hands too, clench'd: nature's last fearful effort.

[De Monfort still stands motionless. Brother Thomas then goes to the body, and raising up the head a little, turns it towards De Monfort.
Thom.
Knowst thou this ghastly face?

De Mon.
(putting his hands before his face in violent perturbation).
Oh, do not! do not! Veil it from my sight!
Put me to any agony but this!

Thom.
Ha! dost thou then confess the dreadful deed?
Hast thou against the laws of awful heaven
Such horrid murder done? What fiend could tempt thee?

[Pauses, and looks steadfastly at De Monfort.
De Mon.
I hear thy words, but do not hear their sense—
Hast thou not cover'd it?

Bern.
(to Thom.)
Forbear, my brother, for thou seest right well
He is not in a state to answer thee.
Let us retire and leave him for awhile.
These windows are with iron grated o'er;
He is secur'd, and other duty calls.

Thom.
Then let it be.

Bern.
(to monks, &c.)
Come, let us all depart.

[Exeunt abbess and nuns, followed by the monks, one monk lingering a little behind.
De Mon.
All gone!
(Perceiving the monk.)
O stay thou here!

Monk.
It must not be.

De Mon.
I'll give thee gold; I'll make thee rich in gold,
If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while.

Monk.
I must not, must not, stay.

De Mon.
I do conjure thee!

Monk.
I dare not stay with thee.

[Going.
De Mon.
And wilt thou go?
[Catching hold of him eagerly.
O! throw thy cloak upon this grizly form!
The unclos'd eyes do stare upon me still.
O do not leave me thus!

[Monk covers the body, and exit.
De Mon.
(alone, looking at the covered body, but at a distance).
Alone with thee! but thou art nothing now.
'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpast;
Would! would it were to come!—
What fated end, what darkly gathering cloud
Will close on all this horror?
O that dire madness would unloose my thoughts,
And fill my mind with wildest fantasies,
Dark, restless, terrible! aught, aught but this!
[Pauses and shudders.
How with convulsive life he heav'd beneath me,
E'en with the death's wound gor'd! O horrid, horrid!
Methinks I feel him still.—What sound is that?
I heard a smother'd groan.—It is impossible!
[Looking steadfastly at the body.
It moves! it moves! the cloth doth heave and swell.
It moves again! I cannot suffer this—
Whate'er it be, I will uncover it.
[Runs to the corpse, and tears off the cloth in despair.
All still beneath.
Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death,
How sternly fixed! Oh! those glazed eyes!
They look upon me still.
[Shrinks back with horror.
Come, madness! come unto me, senseless death!
I cannot suffer this! Here, rocky wall,
Seatter these brains, or dull them!

[Runs furiously, and dashing his head against the wall, falls upon the floor.
Enter two monks hastily.
1st monk.
See: wretched man, he hath destroy'd himself.

2d monk.
He does but faint. Let us remove him hence.

1st monk.
We did not well to leave him here alone.

2d monk.
Come, let us bear him to the open air.

[Exeunt, bearing out De Monfort.

SCENE III.

Before the gates of the convent. Enter Jane De Monfort, Freberg, and Manuel. As they are proceeding towards the gate, Jane stops short and shrinks back.
Freb.
Ha! wherefore? has a sudden illness seiz'd thee?

Jane.
No, no, my friend.—And yet I am very faint—
I dread to enter here.

Man.
Ay, so I thought:
For, when between the trees, that abbey tower
First show'd its top, I saw your count'nance change.
But breathe a little here: I'll go before,
And make inquiry at the nearest gate.

Freb.
Do so, good Manuel.
[Manuel goes and knocks at the gate.
Courage, dear madam: all may yet be well.
Rezenvelt's servant, frighten'd with the storm,
And seeing that his master join'd him not,
As by appointment, at the forest's edge,
Might be alarm'd, and give too ready ear
To an unfounded rumour.
He saw it not; he came not here himself.

Jane
(looking eagerly to the gate, where Manuel talks with the porter).
Ha! see, he talks with some one earnestly.
And seest thou not that motion of his hands?
He stands like one who hears a horrid tale.
Almighty God!
[Manuel goes into the convent.
He comes not back; he enters.

Freb.
Bear up, my noble friend.

Jane.
I will, I will! But this suspense is dreadful.
[A long pause. Manuel re-enters from the convent, and comes forward slowly with a sad countenance.
Is this the face of one who bears good tidings?
O God! his face doth tell the horrid fact:
There is nought doubtful here.

Freb.
How is it, Manuel?

Man.
I've seen him through a crevice in his door:
It is indeed my master.

[Bursting into tears.
[Jane faints, and is supported by Freberg.— Enter abbess and several nuns from the convent, who gather about her, and apply remedies. She recovers.
1st nun.
The life returns again.

2d nun.
Yes, she revives.

Abb.
(to Freb.)
Let me entreat this noble lady's leave
To lead her in. She seems in great distress:
We would with holy kindness soothe her woe,
And do by her the deeds of christian love.

Freb.
Madam, your goodness has my grateful thanks.

[Exeunt, supporting Jane into the convent.

SCENE IV.

De Monfort is discovered sitting in a thoughtful posture. He remains so for some time. His face afterwards begins to appear agitated, like one whose mind is harrowed with the severest thoughts; then, starting from his seat, he clasps his hands together, and holds them up to heaven.
De Mon.
O that I ne'er had known the light of day!
That filmy darkness on mine eyes had hung,
And clos'd me out from the fair face of nature!
O that my mind in mental darkness pent,
Had no perception, no distinction known,
Of fair or foul, perfection or defect,
Nor thought conceiv'd of proud pre-eminence!
O that it had! O that I had been form'd
An idiot from the birth! a senseless changeling,
Who eats his glutton's meal with greedy haste,
Nor knows the hand which feeds him.—
[Pauses; then in a calmer sorrowful voice.
What am I now? how ends the day of life?
For end it must; and terrible this gloom,
This storm of horrors that surrounds its close.
This little term of nature's agony
Will soon be o'er, and what is past is past;
But shall I then, on the dark lap of earth
Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness,
Like senseless clod that doth no pressure feel
From wearing foot of daily passenger;
Like a steep'd rock o'er which the breaking waves
Bellow and foam unheard? O would I could!

Enter Manuel, who springs forward to his master, but is checked upon perceiving De Monfort draw back and look sternly at him.
Man.
My lord, my master! O my dearest master!
[De Monfort still looks at him without speaking.
Nay, do not thus regard me, good my lord!
Speak to me: am I not your faithful Manuel?

De Mon.
(in a hasty broken voice).
Art thou alone?

Man.
No, sir, the Lady Jane is on her way;
She is not far behind.

De Mon.
(tossing his arm over his head in an agony).
This is too much! all I can bear but this!
It must not be.—Run and prevent her coming.
Say, he who is detain'd a prisoner here
Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing.
I am a man of holy claims bereft;
Out of the pale of social kindred cast;
Nameless and horrible.—
Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone
Into a desolate and distant land,
Ne'er to return again. Fly, tell her this;
For we must meet no more.

Enter Jane De Monfort, bursting into the chamber and followed by Freberg, abbess, and several nuns.
Jane.
We must! we must! My brother, O my brother!
[De Monfort turns away his head and hides his face with his arm. Jane stops short, and, making a great effort, turns to Freberg, and the others who followed her, and with an air of dignity stretches out her hand, beckoning them to retire. All retire but Freberg, who seems to hesitate.
And thou too, Freberg: call it not unkind.

[Exit Freberg: Jane and De Monfort only remain.
Jane.
My hapless Monfort!

[De Monfort turns round and looks sorrowfully upon her; she opens her arms to him, and he, rushing into them, hides his face upon her breast, and weeps.
Jane.
Ay, give thy sorrow vent; here mayst thou weep.

De Mon.

(in broken accents).
Oh! this, my sister, makes me feel again
The kindness of affection.
My mind has in a dreadful storm been tost;
Horrid and dark—I thought to weep no more—
I've done a deed—But I am human still.

Jane.
I know thy suff'rings: leave thy sorrow free!
Thou art with one who never did upbraid;
Who mourns, who loves thee still.

De Mon.
Ah! sayst thou so? no, no; it should not be.
(Shrinking from her.)
I am a foul and bloody murderer,
For such embrace unmeet: O leave me! leave me!
Disgrace and public shame abide me now;
And all, alas! who do my kindred own,
The direful portion share.—Away, away!
Shall a disgrac'd and public criminal
Degrade thy name, and claim affinity
To noble worth like thine?—I have no name—
I'm nothing now, not e'en to thee: depart.

[She takes his hand, and grasping it firmly, speaks with a determined voice.
Jane.
De Monfort, hand in hand we have enjoy'd
The playful term of infancy together;
And in the rougher path of ripen'd years
We've been each other's stay. Dark low'rs our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house;
In the terrific face of armed law;
Yea, on the seaffold, if it needs must be,
I never will forsake thee.

De Mon.
(looking at her with admiration.)
Heav'n bless thy gen'ro us soul, my noble Jane!
I thought to sink beneath this load of ill,
Depress'd with infamy and open shame;
I thought to sink in abject wretchedness:
But for thy sake I'll rouse my manhood up,
And meet it bravely; no unseemly weakness,
I feel my rising strength, shall blot my end,
To clothe thy cheek with shame.

Jane.
Yes, thou art noble still.

De Mon.
With thee I am; who were not so with thee?
But, ah! my sister, short will be the term:
Death's stroke will come, and in that state beyond,
Where things unutterable wait the soul,
New from its earthly tenement discharg'd,
We shall be sever'd far.
Far as the spotless purity of virtue
Is from the murd'rer's guilt, far shall we be.
This is the gulf of dread uncertainty
From which the soul recoils.

Jane.
The God who made thee is a God of mercy:
Think upon this.

De Mon.
(shaking his head).
No, no! this blood! this blood!

Jane.
Yes, e'en the sin of blood may be forgiv'n,
When humble penitence hath once aton'd.

De Mon.
(eagerly).
What, after terms of lengthen'd misery,
Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits,
Shall I again, a renovated soul,
Into the blessed family of the good
Admittance have? Thinkst thou that this may be?
Speak, if thou canst: O speak me comfort here!
For dreadful fancies, like an armed host,
Have push'd me to despair. It is most horrible—
O speak of hope! if any hope there be.

[Jane is silent, and looks sorrowfully upon him; then clasping her hands, and turning her eyes to heaven, seems to mutter a prayer.
De Mon.
Ha! dost thou pray for me? heav'n hear thy prayer!
I fain would kneel.—Alas! I dare not do it.

Jane.
Not so! all by th' Almighty Father form'd,
May in their deepest misery call on Him.
Come kneel with me, my brother.

[She kneels and prays to herself; he kneels by her, and clasps his hands fervently, but speaks not. A noise of chains clanking is heard without, and they both rise.
De Mon.
Hearest thou that noise? They come to interrupt us.

Jane.
(moving towards a side door).
Then let us enter here.

De Mon.
(catching hold of her with a look of horror).
Not there—not there—the corpse —the bloody corpse!

Jane.
What, lies he there?—Unhappy Rezenvelt!

De Mon.
A sudden thought has come across my mind;
How came it not before? Unhappy Rezenvelt!
Sayst thou but this?

Jane.
What should I say? he was an honest man;
I still have thought him such, as such lament him.
[De Monfort utters a deep groan.
What means this heavy groan?

De Mon.
It hath a meaning.

Enter abbess and monks, with two officers of justice carrying fetters in their hands to put upon De Monfort.
Jane
(starting.)
What men are these?

1st off.
Lady, we are the servants of the law,
And bear with us a power, which doth constrain
To bind with fetters this our prisoner.

[Pointing to De Monfort.
Jane.
A stranger uncondemn'd? this cannot be.

1st off.
As yet, indeed, he is by law unjudg'd,
But is so far condemn'd by circumstance,
That law, or custom sacred held as law,
Doth fully warrant us, and it must be.

Jane.
Nay, say not so; he has no power t'escape:
Distress hath bound him with a heavy chain;
There is no need of yours.

1st off.
We must perform our office.

Jane.
O! do not offer this indignity!

1st off.
Is it indignity in sacred law
To bind a murderer? (To 2d off.)
Come, do thy work.

Jane.
Harsh are thy words, and stern thy harden'd brow;
Dark is thine eye; but all some pity have
Unto the last extreme of misery.
I do beseech thee! if thou art a man—

[Kneeling to him.
[De Monfort, roused at this, runs up to Jane, and raises her hastily from the ground: then stretches himself up proudly.
De Mon.
(to Jane).
Stand thou erect in native dignity;
And bend to none on earth the suppliant knee,
Though cloth'd in power imperial. To my heart
It gives a feller gripe than many irons.
(Holding out his hands.)
Here, officers of law, bind on those shackles;
And, if they are too light, bring heavier chains,
Add iron to iron; load, crush me to the ground:
Nay, heap ten thousand weight upon my breast,
For that were best of all.

[A long pause, whilst they put irons upon him. After they are on, Jane looks at him sorrowfully, and lets her head sink on her breast. De Monfort stretches out his hand, looks at them, and then at Jane; crosses them over his breast, and endeavours to suppress his feelings.
1st off.
(to De Monfort).
I have it, too, in charge to move you hence,
Into another chamber more sccure.

De Mon.
Well, I am ready, sir.
[Approaching Jane, whom the abbess is endeavouring to comfort, but to no purpose.
Ah! wherefore thus, most honour'd and most dear?
Shrink not at the accoutrements of ill,
Daring the thing itself.
[Endeavouring to look cheerful.
Wilt thou permit me with a gyved hand?
[She gives him her hand, which he raises to his lips.
This was my proudest office.

[Exeunt, De Monfort leading out Jane.

SCENE V.

An apartment in the convent, opening into another room, whose low arched door is seen at the bottom of the stage. In one corner a monk is seen kneeling. Enter another monk, who, on perceiving him, stops till he rises from his knees, and then goes eagerly up to him.
1st monk.
How is the prisoner?

2d monk
(pointing to the door).
He is within, and the strong hand of death
Is dealing with him.

1st monk.
How is this, good brother?
Methought he brav'd it with a manly spirit;
And led, with shackled hands, his sister forth,
Like one resolv'd to bear misfortune bravely.

2d monk.
Yes, with heroic courage, for a while
He seem'd inspir'd; but soon depress'd again,
Remorse and dark despair o'erwhelm'd his soul:
And, from the violent working of his mind,
Some stream of life within his breast has burst;
For many a time, within a little space,
The ruddy tide has rush'd into his mouth.
God grant his pains be short!

1st monk.
How does the lady?

2d monk.
She sits and bears his head upon her lap.
Wiping the cold drops from his ghastly face
With such a look of tender wretchedness,
It wrings the heart to see her.
How goes the night?

1st monk.
It wears, methinks, upon the midnight hour.
It is a dark and fearful night; the moon
Is wrapp'd in sable clouds; the chill blast sounds
Like dismal lamentations. Ay, who knows
What voices mix with the dark midnight winds?
Nay, as I pass'd that yawning cavern's mouth,
A whisp'ring sound, unearthly, reach'd my ear,
And o'er my head a chilly coldness crept.
Are there not wicked fiends and damned sprites,
Whom yawning charnels, and th' unfathom'd depths
Of secret darkness, at this fearful hour,
Do upwards send, to watch, unseen, around
The murd'rer's death-bed, at his fatal term,
Ready to hail with dire and horrid welcome,
Their future mate?—I do believe there are.

2d monk.
Peace, peace! a God of wisdom and of mercy,
Veils from our sight—Ha! hear that heavy groan.

[A groan heard within.
1st monk.
It is the dying man.

[Another groan.
2d monk.
God grant him rest!
[Listening at the door.
I hear him struggling in the gripe of death.
O piteous heaven! [Goes from the door.
Enter Brother Thomas from the chamber.

How now, good brother?

Thom.
Retire, my friends. O many a bed of death
With all its pangs and horrors I have seen,
But never aught like this! Retire, my friends!
The death-bell will its awful signal give,
When he has breath'd his last.
I would move hence, but I am weak and faint:
Let me a moment on thy shoulder lean.
Oh, weak and mortal man!

[Leans on 2d monk: a pause.
Enter Bernard from the chamber.
2d monk.
(to Bern.)
How is your penitent?

Bern.
He is with Him who made him; Him, who knows
The soul of man: before whose awful presence
Th' unsceptred tyrant stands despoil'd and helpless,
Like an unclothed babe.
[Bell tolls.
The dismal sound!
Retire, and pray for the blood-stained soul:
May heav'n have mercy on him! [Bell tolls again.
[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

A hall or large room in the convent. The bodies of De Monfort and Rezenvelt are discovered laid out upon a low table or platform, covered with black. Freberg, Bernard, abbess, monks, and nuns attending.
Abb.
(to Freb.)
Here must they lie, my lord, until we know
Respecting this the order of the law.

Freb.
And you have wisely done, my rev'rend mother.
[Goes to the table, and looks at the bodies, but without uncovering them..
Unhappy men! ye, both in nature rich,
With talents and with virtues were endued.
Ye should have lov'd, yet deadly rancour came,
And in the prime and manhood of your days
Ye sleep in horrid death. O direful hate!
What shame and wretchedness his portion is,
Who, for a secret inmate, harbours thee!
And who shall call him blameless, who excites,
Ungen'rously excites, with careless scorn,
Such baleful passion in a brother's breast,
Whom heav'n commands to love? Low are ye laid:
Still all contention now.—Low are ye laid:
I lov'd you both, and mourn your hapless fall.

Abb.
They were your friends, my lord?

Freb.
I lov'd them both. How does the Lady Jane?

Abb.
She bears misfortune with intrepid soul.
I never saw in woman, bow'd with grief,
Such moving dignity.

Freb.
Ay, still the same.
I've known her long: of worth most excellent;
But in the day of woe she ever rose
Upon the mind with added majesty,
As the dark mountain more sublimely tow'rs
Mantled in clouds and storm.

Enter Manuel and Jerome.
Man.
(pointing).
Here, my good Jerome, here's a piteous sight.

Jer.
A piteous sight! yet I will look upon him:
I'll see his face in death. Alas, alas!
I've seen him move a noble gentleman!
And when with vexing passion undisturb'd,
He look'd most graciously.
[Lifts up in mistake the cloth from the body of Rezenvelt, and starts back with horror.
Oh! this was the bloody work! Oh! oh, oh, oh!
That human hands could do it!

[Drops the cloth again.
Man.
That is the murder'd corpse; here lies De Monfort.

[Going to uncover the other body.
Jer.
(turning away his head).
No, no! I cannot look upon him now.

Man.
Didst thou not come to see him?

Jer.
Fy! cover him—inter him in the dark—
Let no one look upon him.

Bern.
(to Jer.)
Well dost thou show the abhorrence nature feels
For deeds of blood, and I commend thee well.
In the most ruthless heart compassion wakes
For one, who, from the hand of fellow man,
Hath felt such cruelty.
[Uncovering the body of Rezenvelt.
This is the murder'd corse:
[Uncovering the body of De Monfort.
But see, I pray!
Here lies the murderer. What thinkst thou here?
Look on those features, thou hast seen them oft,
With the last dreadful conflict of despair,
So fix'd in horrid strength.
See those knit brows; those hollow sunken eyes;
The sharpen'd nose, with nostrils all distent;
That writhed mouth, where yet the teeth appear,
In agony, to gnash the nether lip.
Thinkst thou, less painful than the murd'rer's knife
Was such a death as this?
Ay, and how changed too those matted locks!

Jer.
Merciful heaven! his hair is grizly grown,
Chang'd to white age, that was, but two days since,
Black as the raven's plume. How may this be?

Bern.
Such change, from violent conflict of the mind,
Will sometimes come.

Jer.
Alas, alas! most wretched!
Thou wert too good to do a cruel deed,
And so it kill'd thee. Thou hast suffer'd for it.
God rest thy soul! I needs must touch thy hand,
And bid thee long farewell.

[Laying his hand on De Monfort.
Bern.
Draw back, draw back: see where the lady comes.

Enter Jane De Monfort. Freberg, who has been for some time retired by himself at the bottom of the stage, now steps forward to lead her in, but checks himself on seeing the fixed sorrow of her countenance, and draws back respectfully. Jane advances to the table, and looks attentively at the covered bodies. Manuel points out the body of De Monfort, and she gives a gentle inclination of the head, to signify that she understands him. She then bends tenderly over it, without speaking.
Man.
(to Jane, as she raises her head).
Oh, madam, my good lord!

Jane.
Well says thy love, my good and faithful Manuel:
But we must mourn in silence.

Man.
Alas! the times that I have followed him!

Jane.
Forbear, my faithful Manuel. For this love
Thou hast my grateful thanks; and here's my hand:
Thou hast lov'd him, and I'll remember thee.
Where'er I am, in whate'er spot of earth
I linger out the remnant of my days,
I will remember thee.

Man.
Nay, by the living God! where'er you are,
There will I be. I'll prove a trusty servant:
I'll follow you, even to the world's end.
My master's gone; and I indeed am mean,
Yet will I show the strength of nobler men,
Should any dare upon your honour'd worth
To put the slightest wrong. Leave you, dear lady!
Kill me, but say not this!

[Throwing himself at her feet.
Jane
(raising him).
Well, then! be thou my servant, and my friend.
Art thou, good Jerome, too, in kindness come?
I see thou art. How goes it with thine age?

Jer.
Ah, madam! woe and weakness dwell with age:
Would I could serve you with a young man's strength!
I'd spend my life for you.

Jane.
Thanks, worthy Jerome.
O! who hath said, the wretched have no friends?

Freb.
In every sensible and gen'rous breast
Affliction finds a friend; but unto thee,
Thou most exalted and most honourable,
The heart in warmest adoration bows,
And even a worship pays.

Jane.
Nay, Freberg! Freberg! grieve me not, my friend.
He, to whose ear my praise most welcome was,
Hears it no more! and, oh, our piteous lot!
What tongue will talk of him? Alas, alas!
This more than all will bow me to the earth;
I feel my misery here.
The voice of praise was wont to name us both:
I had no greater pride.

[Covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears. Here they all hang about her: Freberg supporting her tenderly, Manuel embracing her knees, and old Jerome catching hold of her robe affectionately. Bernard, abbess, monks, and nuns likewise gather round her, with looks of sympathy.
Enter two Officers of Law.
1st off.
Where is the prisoner?
Into our hands he straight must be consign'd.

Bern.
He is not subject now to human laws;
The prison that awaits him is the grave.

1st off.
Ha! sayst thou so? there is foul play in this.

Man.
(to off.)
Hold thy unrighteous tongue, or hie thee hence,
Nor in the presence of this honour'd dame,
Utter the slightest meaning of reproach.

1st off.
I am an officer on duty call'd,
And have authority to say, “How died he?”

[Here Jane shakes off the weakness of grief, and repressing Manuel, who is about to reply to the officer, steps forward with dignity.
Jane.
Tell them by whose authority you come,
He died that death which best becomes a man,
Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill
And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit.
A death that kills the noble and the brave,
And only them. He had no other wound.

1st off.
And shall I trust to this?

Jane.
Do as thou wilt:
To one who can suspect my simple word
I have no more reply. Fulfil thine office.

1st off.
No, lady. I believe your honour'd word,
And will no further search.

Jane.
I thank your courtesy: thanks, thanks to all;
My rev'rend mother, and ye honour'd maids;
Ye holy men, and you, my faithful friends;
The blessing of the afflicted rest with you!
And He, who to the wretched is most piteous,
Will recompense you.—Freberg, thou art good;
Remove the body of the friend you lov'd:
'Tis Rezenvelt I mean. Take thou this charge:
'Tis meet, that with his noble ancestors
He lie entomb'd in honourable state.
And now I have a sad request to make,
Nor will these holy sisters scorn my boon;
That I, within these sacred cloister walls,
May raise a humble, nameless tomb to him,
Who, but for one dark passion, one dire deed,
Had claim'd a record of as noble worth,
As e'er enrich'd the sculptur'd pedestal.

[Exeunt.

ETHWALD:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

1. PART FIRST.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Oswal, king of Mercia.
• Edward, his nephew, and ethling or heir to the crown.
• Seagurth, father to Edward.
• Ethwald.
• Ethelbert, a noble Thane.
• Selred, elder brother to Ethwald.
• Mollo, father to Ethwald, a Thane of small consideration.
• Hexulf, a bigoted bishop.
• Alwy, an artful adventurer.
• Woggarwolfe, a rude marauding Thane.
• Ongar, a creature of Alwy's.
• Mystics and Mystic Sisters, supposed to be successors of the Druidical diviners; soldiers, attendants, &c.

WOMEN

• Elburga, daughter to king Oswal.
• Bertha, attached to Ethwald.
• Sigurtha, mother to Bertha, and niece to Mollo, living in his castle, with her daughter, as part of his family.
• Dwina, attendant on Elburga.
• Ladies, attendants, and female Druids.

The scene is supposed to be in England, in the kingdom of Mercia, and the time near the end of the Heptarchy.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The court of a Saxon castle. Ethwald is discovered lying upon the ground as if half asleep. The sound of a horn is heard without, at which he raises his head a little, and lays it down again. The gate of the castle opens at the bottom of the stage, and enter Selred, Ethelbert, and attendants, as if returned from hunting. Sel. and Eth. walk forward to the front, and the others retire by different sides of the stage.
Selred.
This morning's sport hath bravely paid our toil.
Have not my dogs done credit to their breed?

Eth.
I grant they have.

Sel.
Mark'd you that tawny hound,
With stretched nostrils snuffing to the ground,
Who still before, with animating yell,
Like the brave leader of a warlike band,
Through many a mazy track his comrades led
Right in the tainted path?
I would not for the weregild of a Thane
That noble creature barter.

Eth.
I do not mean to tempt thee with the sum.
Seest thou where Ethwald, like a cottage cur
On dunghill stretch'd, half sleeping, half awake,
Doth bask his lazy carcass in the sun?
Ho! laggard there!
[To Ethw., who just raises his head, and lays it down again. Eth. going up close to him.
When slowly from the plains and nether woods,
With all their winding streams and hamlets brown,
Updrawn, the morning vapour lifts its veil,
And through its fleecy folds, with soften'd rays,
Like a still'd infant smiling in his tears,
Looks through the early sun:—when from afar
The gleaming lake betrays its wide expanse,
And, lightly curling on the dewy air,
The cottage smoke doth wind its path to heaven:
When larks sing shrill, and village cocks do crow,
And lows the heifer loosen'd from her stall:
When heaven's soft breath plays on the woodman's brow,
And every hare-bell and wild tangled flower
Smells sweetly from its cage of checker'd dew:
Ay, and when huntsmen wind the merry horn,
And from its covert starts the fearful prey;
Who, warm'd with youth's blood in his swelling veins,
Would, like a lifeless clod, outstretched lie,
Shut up from all the fair creation offers?
(Ethw. yawns and heeds him not.)
He heeds me not.

Sel.
I will assail him now.
(In a louder voice.)
Ho! heads of foxes deck our huntsman's belt,
Which have through tangled woods and ferny moors
With many wiles shaped out their mazy flight,
Have swum deep floods, and from the rocky brows
Of frightful precipices boldly leap'd
Into the gulf below.
Nay, e'en our lesser game hath nobly done;
Across his shoulders hang four furred feet,
That have full twenty miles before us run
In little space. O, it was glorious!

Ethw.
(raising his head carelessly).
Well well, I know that hares will swiftly run
When dogs pursue them.

(Stretches himself and goes to rest again.)
Eth.
Leave him to rest, he is not to be rous'd.

Sel.
Well, be it so. By heaven, my fretted soul
Did something of this easy stupor lack,
When near the latter limits of our chace
I pass'd the frowning tower of Ruthergeld.
He hangs a helmet o'er his battlements,
As though he were the chief protecting Thane
Of all the country round.
I'll teach th' ennobled Ceorl, within these bounds,
None may pretend in noble birth to vie
With Mollo's honour'd line!

Eth.
(proudly).
Hast thou forgot?
Or didst thou never hear whose blood it is
That fills these swelling veins?

Sel.
I cry you mercy, Thane: I little doubt
Some brave man was the founder of your house.

Eth.
Yes, such an one, at mention of whose name
The brave descendants of two hundred years
Have stately ris'n with more majestic step,
And proudly smiled.

Sel.
Who was this lordly chieftain?

Eth.
A Swabian shepherd's son, who, in dark times,
When ruin dire menaced his native land,
With all his native lordship in his grasp,
A simple maple spear and osier shield,
Making of keen and deep sagacity,
With daring courage and exalted thoughts,
A plain and native warrant of command,
Around him gather'd all the valiant youth;
And, after many a gallant enterprise,
Repell'd the foe, and gave his country peace.
His grateful country bless'd him for the gift,
And offer'd to his worth the regal crown.

Sel.
(bowing respectfully).
I yield me to thy claim.

[Ethwald, who has raised himself up by degrees upon hearing the story, and listened eagerly, now starts up, impatient of the pause, and catches Eth. by the arm.
Ethw.
And did they crown him then?

Eth.
No; with a mind above all selfish wrong,
He gen'rously the splendid gift refused:
And drawing from his distant low retreat
The only remnant of the royal race,
Did fix him firmly on his father's seat;
Proving until his very latest breath
A true and loyal subject.

[Ethwald's countenance changes, then turning from Eth. he slowly retires to the bottom of the stage and exit. Eth. follows him attentively with his eye as he retires.
Eth.
Mark'd you the changes of the stripling's eye?
You do complain that he of late has grown
A musing sluggard. Selred, mark me well:
Brooding in secret, grows within his breast
That which no kindred owns to sloth or ease.
And is your father fix'd to keep him pent
Still here at home? Doth the old wizard's prophecy,
That the destruction of his noble line
Should from the valour of his youngest son,
In royal warfare, spring, still haunt his mind?
This close confinement makes the pining youth
More eager to be free.

Sel.
Nay, rather say, the lore he had from thee
Hath o'er him cast this sullen gloom. Ere this,
Where was the fiercest courser of our stalls
That did not shortly under him become
As gentle as the lamb? What bow so stiff
But he would urge and strain his youthful strength,
Till every sinew o'er his body rose,
Like to the sooty forger's swelling arm,
Until it bent to him? What flood so deep
That on its foaming waves he would not throw
His naked breast, and beat each curling surge,
Until he gain'd the far opposing shore?
But since he learnt from thee that letter'd art,
Which only sacred priests were meant to know,
See how it is, I pray! His father's house
Has unto him become a cheerless den.
His pleasant tales and sprightly playful talk,
Which still our social meals were wont to cheer,
Now visit us but like a hasty beam
Between the showery clouds. Nay, e'en the maid
My careful father destines for his bride,
That he may still retain him here at home,
Fair as she is, receives, when she appears,
His cold and cheerless smile.
Surely thy penanced pilgrimage to Rome,
And the displeasure of our holy saint,
Might well have taught thee that such sacred art
Was good for priests alone. Thou'st spoilt the youth.

Eth.
I've spoilt the youth! What thinkst thou then of me?

Sel.
I'll not believe that thou at dead of night
Unto dark spirits sayst unholy rhymes;
Nor that the torch, on holy altars burnt,
Sinks into smoth'ring smoke at thy approach;
Nor that foul fiends about thy castle yell,
What time the darken'd earth is rock'd with storms;
Though many do such frightful credence hold,
And sign themselves when thou dost cross their way.
I'll not believe—

Eth.
By the bless'd light of heaven !—

Sel.
I cannot think—

Eth.
Nay, by this well-proved sword!

Sel.
Patience, good Thane! I meant to speak thy praise.

Eth.
My praise, sayst thou?

Sel.
Thy praise. I would have said,
“That he who in the field so oft hath fought,
So bravely fought, and still in the honour'd cause,
Should hold unhallow'd league with damned sprites,
I never will believe.” Yet much I grieve
That thou with bold intrusive forwardness,
Hast enter'd into that which holy men
Hold sacred for themselves;
And that thou hast, with little prudence too,
Entrapp'd my brother with this wicked lore,
Although methinks thou didst not mean him harm.

Eth.
I thank thee, Selred; listen now to me,
And thou shalt hear a plain and simple tale,
As true as it is artless.
These cunning priests full loudly blast my fàme,
Because that I with diligence and cost,
Have had myself instructed how to read
Our sacred Scriptures, which, they would maintain,
No eye profane may dare to violate.
If I am wrong, they have themselves to blame;
It was their hard extortions first impell'd me
To search that precious book, from which they draw
Their right, as they pretend, to lord it thus.
But what thinkst thou, my Selred, read I there?
Of one sent down from heav'n in sov'reign pomp,
To give into the hands of leagued priests
All power to hold th' immortal soul of man
In everlasting thraldom? O far otherwise!
[Taking Selred 's hand with great earnestness.
Of one who health restored unto the sick,
Who made the lame to walk, the blind to see,
Who fed the hungry, and who rais'd the dead,
Yet had no place wherein to lay His head.
Of one from ev'ry spot of tainting sin
Holy and pure; and yet so lenient,
That He with soft and unupbraiding love
Did woo the wand'ring sinner from his ways,
As doth the elder brother of a house
The erring stripling guide. Of one, my friend,
Wiser by far than all the sons of men,
Yet teaching ignorance in simple speech,
As thou wouldst take an infant on thy lap
And lesson him with his own artless tale.
Of one so mighty
That He did say unto the raging sea
“Be thou at peace,” and it obeyed His voice;
Yet bow'd Himself unto the painful death
That we might live.—They say that I am proud—
O! had they like their gentle master been,
I would, with suppliant knee bent to the ground,
Have kiss'd their very feet.
But, had they been like Him, they would have pardon'd me
Ere yet my bending knee had touch'd the earth.

Sel.
Forbear, nor tempt me with thy moving words!
I'm a plain soldier, and unfit to judge
Of mysteries which but concern the learn'd.

Eth.
I know thou art, nor do I mean to tempt thee.
But in thy younger brother I had mark'd
A searching mind of freer exercise,
Untrammell'd with the thoughts of other men:
And like to one, who, in a gloomy night,
Watching alone amidst a sleeping host,
Sees suddenly along the darken'd sky
Some beauteous meteor play, and with his hand
Wakens a kindred sleeper by his side
To see the glorious sight, e'en so did I.
With pains and cost I divers books procured,
Telling of wars, and arms, and famous men;
Thinking it would his young attention rouse;
Would combat best a learner's difficulty,
And pave the way at length for better things.
But here his seized soul has wrapp'd itself,
And from the means is heedless of the end.
If wrong I've done, I do repent me of it.
And now, good Selred, as thou'st seen me fight
Like a brave chief, and still in th' honour'd cause,
By that good token kindly think of me,
As of a man who long has suffered wrong
Rather than one deserving so to suffer.

Sel.
I do, brave Ethelbert.

Eth.
I thank thee, friend.
And now we'll go and wash us from this dust:
We are not fit at goodly boards to sit.
Is not your feast-hour near?

Sel.
I think it is.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A small apartment in Mollo 's castle. Enter Ethwald very thoughtful, who leans against a pillar for some time without speaking.
Ethw.
(coming forward).
Is it delusion this?
Or wears the mind of man within itself
A conscious feeling of its destination?
What say these suddenly imposed thoughts,
Which mark such deepen'd traces on the brain
Of vivid real persuasion, as do make
My nerved foot tread firmer on the earth,
And my dilating form tower on its way?
That I am born, within these narrow walls,
The younger brother of a petty chief,
To live my term in dark obscurity,
Until some foul disease or bloody gash,
In low marauding strife, shall lay me low?
My spirit sickens at the hateful thought,
Which hangs upon it with such thick oppression,
As doth the heavy, dense, sulphureous air
Upon the breath it stifles.
[Pulling up the sleeve of his garment, and baring his right arm from the shoulder.
A firmer strung, a stronger arm than this
Own'd ever valiant chief of ancient story?
And lacks my soul within, what should impel it?
Ah! but occasion, like th' unveiling moon
Which calls the advent'rer forth, did shine on them!
I sit i' the shade! no star-beam falls on me!
[Bursts into tears, and throws himself back against the pillar. A pause; he then starts forward full of animation, and tosses his arms high as he speaks.
No; storms are hush'd within their silent cave,
And unflesh'd lions slumber in the den,
But there doth come a time!

Enter Bertha, stealing softly upon him before he is aware.
Ber.
I heard thee loud:
Conversest thou with spirits in the air?

Ethw.
With those whose answ'ring voice thou canst not hear.

Ber.
Thou hast of late the friend of such become,
And only them. Thou art indeed so strange,
Thy very dogs have ceas'd to follow thee,
For thou no more their fawning court receiv'st,
Nor callest to them with a master's voice.
What art thou grown, since thou hast lov'd to pore
Upon those magic books?

Ethw.
No matter what! a hermit an' thou wilt.

Ber.
Nay, rather, by thy high assumed gait
And lofty mien, which I have mark'd of late,
Ofttimes thou art, within thy mind's own world,
Some king or mighty chief.
If so it be, tell me thine honour's pitch,
And I will cast my regal mantle on,
And mate thy dignity.

[Assuming much state.
Ethw.
Out on thy foolery!

Ber.
Dost thou remember
How on our throne of turf, with birchen crowns
And willow branches waving in our hands,
We shook our careless feet, and caroll'd out,
And call'd ourselves the king and queen of Kent?

Ethw.
Yes, children ever in their mimic play
Such fairy state assume.

Ber.
And bearded men
Do sometimes gild the dull unchanging face
Of sombre stilly life with like conceits.
Come, an' you will we'll go to play again.

[Tripping gaily round him.
Ethw.
Who sent thee here to gambol round me thus?

Ber.
Nay, fie upon thee! for thou knowst right well
It is an errand of my own good will.
Knowest thou not the wand'ring clown is here,
Who doth the osier wands and rushes weave
Into all shapes: who chants gay stories too;
And who was wont to tell thee, when a boy,
Of all the bloody wars of furious Penda?
E'en now he is at work before the gate,
With heaps of pliant rushes round him strew'd;
In which birds, dogs, and children roll and nestle,
Whilst, crouching by his side, with watchful eye
The playful kitten marks each trembling rush
As he entwists his many cireling bands.
Nay, men and matrons, too, around him flock,
And Ethelbert, low seated on a stone,
With arms thus cross'd, o'erlooks his curious craft.
Wilt thou not come?

Ethw.
Away, I care not for it!

Ber.
Nay, do not shake thy head, for thou must come.
This magic girdle will compel thy steps.

[Throws a girdle round him playfully, and pulls it till it breaks.
Ethw.
(smiling coldly).
Thou seest it cannot hold me.

[Bertha's face changes immediately: she bursts into tears, and turns away to conceal it.
Ethw.
(soothing her).
My gentle Bertha! little foolish maid!
Why fall those tears? wilt thou not look on me?
Dost thou not know I am a wayward man,
Sullen by fits, but meaning no unkindness?

Ber.
O thou wert wont to make the hall rejoice;
And cheer the gloomy face of dark December!

Ethw.
And will, perhaps, again. Cheer up, my love!
(Assuming a cheerful voice.)
And plies the wandering clown his pleasing craft,
Whilst dogs and men and children round him flock?
Come, let us join them too.
[Holding out his hand to her, whilst she smiles through her tears.
How course those glancing drops adown thy cheeks,
Like to a whimp'ring child! fie on thee, Bertha!

[Wipes off her tears, and leads her out affectionately. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A narrow stone gallery or passage.
(Voice without.)
Enter two servants by opposite sides, one of them carrying mats of rushes in his arms.
1st serv.
Setst thou thy feet thus softly to the ground,—
As if thou hadst been paid to count thy steps?
What made thee stay so long?

2d serv.
Heard you the news?

1st serv.
The news?

2d serv.
Ay, by the mass! sharp news indeed.
And mark me well! beforehand I have said it;
Some of those spears now hanging in the hall
Will wag i' the field ere long.

1st serv.
Thou hast a marv'llous gift of prophecy.
I know it well; but let us hear thy news.

2d serv.
Marry! the Britons and their restless prince,
Join'd with West Anglia's king, a goodly host,
Are now in Mercia, threat'ning all with ruin.
And over and besides, God save us all!
They are but five leagues off.
'Tis true. And over and besides again,
Our king is on his way to give them battle.
Ay, and moreover all, if the late floods
Have broken down the bridge, as it is fear'd
He must perforce pass by our castle walls,
And then thou shalt behold a goodly show!

1st serv.
Who brought the tidings?

2d serv.
A soldier sent on horseback, all express:
E'en now I heard him tell it to the Thane,
Who caution'd me to tell it unto none,
That Ethwald might not hear it.

1st serv.
And thou in sooth obeyst his caution well.
Now hear thou this from me; thou art a lout;
And over and besides a babbling fool;
Ay, and moreover all, I'll break thy head
If thou dost tell again, in any wise,
The smallest tittle of it.

2d serv.
Marry! I can be secret as thyself!
I tell not those who blab.

1st serv.
Yes, yes, thy caution is most scrupulous;
Thou'lt whisper it in Ethwald's hither ear,
And bid the further not to know of it.
Give me those trusses.

2d serv.
Yes, this is made for my old master's seat,
And this, so soft, for gentle lady Bertha.
(Giving the mats.)
And this, and this, and this for Ethelbert.
But see thou put a sprig of mountain-ash
Beneath it snugly. Dost thou understand?

1st serv.
What is thy meaning?

2d serv.
It hath a power to cross all wicked spells;
So that a man may sit next stool to th' devil,
If he can lay but slily such a twig
Beneath his seat, nor suffer any harm.

1st serv.
I wish there were some herb of secret power
To save from daily scath of blund'ring fools:
I know beneath whose stool it should be press'd.
Get thee along! the feast smokes in the hall.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Saxon hall, with the walls hung round with armour. Mollo, Ethelbert, Selred, Ethwald, Bertha, Sigurtha, and others, are discovered sitting round a table, on which stand goblets and flaggons &c. after a feast.
Eth.
Nay, gentle Bertha, if thou followest him,
Shear off those lovely tresses from thy head,
And with a frowning helmet shade those eyes;
E'en with thy prowess added to his own,
Methinks he will not be surcharg'd of means
To earn his brilliant fortune in the field.

Ber.
Nay, rather will I fill a little scrip
With sick-men's drugs and salves for fest'ring wounds,
And journey by his side a trav'lling leech.

Sel.
That will, indeed, no unmeet comrade be
For one whose fortune must be earn'd with blows
Borne by no substitutes.

Ethw.
Well jested, Thanes!
But some, ere now, with fortune earn'd by blows
Borne by no substitutes, have placed their mates
Above the gorgeous dames of castled lords.
Cheer up, sweet Bertha!
For ev'ry drug ta'en from thy little scrip
I'll pay thee back with—

Eth.
Sticks the word in his throat.

Sel.
It is too great for utt'rance.

Eth.
Here's to your growing honour, future chief;
And here is to the lofty dame who shall be—

[They all drink ironically to Ethw. and Berth.
Mollo.
(seriously).
Here is a father's wish for thee, my son,
(To Ethw.)
Better than all the glare of fleeting greatness.
Be thou at home the firm domestic prop
Of thine old father's house, in this as honour'd
As he who bears far hence advent'rous arms!
Nor think thee thus debarr'd from warlike deeds:
Our neighb'ring chiefs are not too peaceable,
And much adventure breed in little space.

Ethw.
What! shall I in their low destructive strife
Put forth my strength, and earn with valiant deeds
The fair renown of mighty Woggarwolfe,
The flower of all those heroes? Hateful ruffian!
He drinks men's blood and human flesh devours!
For scarce a heifer on his pasture feeds
Which hath not cost a gallant warrior's life.
I cry you mercy, father! you are kind,
But I do lack the grace to thank you for it.

[Mollo leans on the table and looks sad.
Sigur.
(to Mol.)
Good uncle, you are sad! Our gen'rous Ethwald
Contemns not his domestic station here,
Though little willing to enrich your walls
With spoils of petty war.

Ethw.
(seeing his father sad, and assuming cheerfulness).
Nay, father, if your heart is set on spoil,
Let it be Woggarwolfe's that you shall covet,
And small persuasion may suffice to tempt me.
To plunder him will be no common gain.
We feasters love the flesh of well-run game:
And, faith! the meanest beeves of all his herds
Have hoof'd it o'er as many weary miles,
With goading pike-men hollaing at their heels,
As e'er the bravest antler of the woods.
His very sheep too all are noble beasts,
For which contending warriors have fought;
And thrifty dames will find their fleece enrich'd
With the productions of full many a soil.

Ber.
How so, my Ethwald?

Ethw.
Countest thou for nought
Furze from the upland moors, and bearded down
Torn from the thistles of the sandy plain,
The sharp-tooth'd bramble of the shaggy woods
And tufted seeds from the dark marsh? Good sooth;
She well may triumph in no vulgar skill
Who spins a coat from it.
And then his wardrobe, too, of costly gear,
Which from the wallets of a hundred thieves.
Has been transferring for a score of years,
In endless change, it will be noble spoil!
[A trumpet is heard without, and Ethw. starts from his seat.
Ha! 'tis the trumpet's voice!
What royal leader this way shapes his route?
[A silent pause.
Ye answer not. and yet ye seem to know.

Enter Servants in haste.
Good fellows, what say ye?
1st serv.
The king! the king! and with five thousand men!

2d serv.
I saw his banners from the battlements
Waving between the woods.

3d serv.
And so did I.
His spearmen onward move in dusky lines,
Like the brown reeds that skirt the winter pool.

Sel.
Well, well, there needs not all this wond'ring din:
He passes on, and we shall do our part.

1st serv.
The foe is three leagues off.

Sel.
Hold thy fool's tongue! I want no information.

[Ethwald remains for a while thoughtful, then running eagerly to the end of the hall, climbs up and snatches from the walls a sword and shield, with which he is about to run out.
Mollo
(tottering from his seat).
O go not forth, my rash impetuous son!
Say yet a term beneath thy father's root,
And, were it at the cost of half my lands,
I'll send thee out accoutred like a Thane.

Ethw.
No, reverend sire, these be my patrimony!
I ask of thee no more.

Ber.
And wilt thou leave us?

Mollo.
Ay, he'll break thy heart,
And lay me in the dust!

[Trumpet sounds again, and Ethw. turning hastily from them, runs out.
Ber.
Oh! he is gone for ever!

Eth.
Patience, sweet Bertha!

Sd.
The castle gates are shut by my command,
He cannot now escape. Holla, good friends!

[To those without.
Enter Followers.
All quickly arm yourselves, and be prepared
To follow me before the fall of eve.
Eth.
Send out my scout to climb the farther hill,
And spy if that my bands are yet in sight.
[Exeunt followers.
Now let us try to tame this lion's whelp.

Enter Servant in haste.
Sel.
What tidings, man? Is Ethwald at the gate?

Ser.
No, good my lord, nor yet within the walls.

Sel.
What, have they open'd to him?

Ser.
No, my lord,
Loudly he call'd, but when it was refus'd,
With glaring eyes, like an enchafed wolf,
He hied him where the lowest southern wall
Rises but little o'er the rugged rock;
There, aided by a half-projecting stone,
He scal'd its height, and holding o'er his head
His sword and shield, grasp'd in his better hand,
Swam the full moat.

Eth.
(to Sel.)
O, noble youth!
Did I not say, you might as well arrest
The fire of heav'n within its pitchy cloud
As keep him here?
[Bertha faints away.
Alas, poor maid!

[Whilst Sigurtha and Eth. &c. attend to Bertha, enter followers and retainers, and begin to take down the armour from the walls.
Enter Woggarwolfe.
Wog.
(to Sel.)
They would have shut your gate upon me now,
But I, commission'd on the king's affairs,
Commanded entrance. Oswal greets you, chiefs,
And gives you orders, with your followers,
To join him speedily.
(Seeing Bertha.)
What, swooning women here?

Sel.
Ethwald is gone in spite of all our care,
And she, thou knowst, my father's niece's child,
Brought up with him from early infancy.
Is therein much affected.

Wog.
(smiling).
O, it is ever thus, I know it well,
When striplings are concern'd! Once on a time.
A youthful chief I seiz'd in his own hall,
When, on the instant, was the floor around
With fainting maids and shrieking matrons strew'd,
As though the end of all things had been link'd
Unto my fatal grasp.

Sel.
(eagerly).
Thou didst not slay him?

Wog.
(smiling contemptuously).
Asks Selred if I slew mine enemy?

Sel.
Then, by heav'n's light, it was a ruffian's deed!

Wog.
I cry thee grace! wearst thou a virgin sword?
Maidens turn pale when they do look on blood,
And men there be who sicken at the sight,
If men they may be call'd.

Sel.
Ay, men there be,
Who sicken at the sight of crimson butchery,
Yet in the battle's heat will far out-dare
A thousand shedders of unkindled blood.

Eth.
(coming forward).
Peace, Thanes! this is no time for angry words.

[Bertha giving a deep sigh, Eth. and Sel. go to her and leave Wog., who heeds her not, but looks at the men taking the arms from the walls.—Observing one who hesitates between the swords.
Wog.
Fool, choose the other blade!
That weight of steel will noble gashes make!
Nay, rightly guided in a hand like thine,
Might cleave a man down to the nether ribs.

Sig.
(to Bertha, as she is recovering).
My gentle child, how art thou?

Ber.
And no kind hand to hold him!

Eth.
Be not cast down, sweet maid; he'll soon return;
All are not lost who join in chanceful war.

Ber.
I know right well, good Thane, all are not lost.
The native children of rude jarring war,
Full oft returning from the field, become
Beneath their shading helmets aged men:
But, ah! the kind, the playful, and the gay;
They who have gladden'd their domestic board,
And cheer'd the winter-fire, do they return?
I grieve you all: I will no more complain.
Dear mother, lead me hence. (To Sig.)
(To Sel.)

I thank you, gentle Selred, this suffices.

[Exit Bertha, supported by Sigurtha.
Sel.
(to Mollo, who has sat for some time with his face covered).
What, so o'ercome, my father?

Moll.
I am o'ercome, my son! lend me thine arm.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A forest: the view of an abbey with its spires in the background. Enter the King, attended by Seagurth and several Thanes and followers, some of them wounded, and their wounds bound up, as after a battle. A flourish of trumpets: the King stretches out his arm in the action of command; the trumpets cease, and they all halt.
King.
Companions of this rough and bloody day,
Beneath the kindly shelter of this wood
Awhile repose, until our eager youth
Shall, from the widely spread pursuit return'd,
Rejoin our standards.
Brave seneschal, thou'rt weak with loss of blood;
Forbear attendance. Ay, and thou, good Baldrick;
And thou (to another),
and all of you.

Sen.
No, gracious king;
The sight of you, unhurt, doth make the blood
That in our veins is left so kindly glow,
We cannot faint.

King.
Thanks, noble chiefs! dear is the gain I earn,
Purchas'd with blood so precious. Who are those
Who hitherward in long procession move?

Sen.
It is the pious brethren, as I guess,
Come forth to meet you from yon neighb'ring abbey,
And at their head the holy Hexulf comes.

Enter Hexulf and monks.
Hex.
Accept our humble greetings, royal sire!
Victorious be your arms! and in the dust
Low be your foes, as in this glorious day!
Favour'd of heav'n, and of St. Alban, hail!

King.
I thank your kindly zeal, my rev'rend father;
And from these holy brethren do accept
With thanks this token of good will, not doubting
That much I am beholden to your prayers.

Hex.
In truth, most gracious king, your armed host
Has not more surely in your cause prevail'd
Than hath our joint petition, offered up
With holy fervour, most importunate.
Soon as the heav'n-rais'd voices sweetly reach'd
The echoing arches of yon sacred roofs,
Saint Alban heard, and to your favour'd side
Courage and strength, the soul of battle, sent;
Fear and distraction to th' opposing foe.

King.
Ah, then, good father, and ye pious monks,
Would that ye had begun your prayers the sooner!
For long in doubtful scales the battle hung;
And of the men who, with this morning's sun,
Buckled their harness on to follow me,
Full many a valiant warrior, on his back
Lies stiff'ning to the wind.

Hex.
The wicked sprite in ev'ry armed host
Will find his friends; who doubtless for a time
May counterpoise the prayers of holy men.
There are among your troops, I question not,
Many who do our sacred rites contemn:
Many who have blasphem'd—Ay, good my lord;
And many holding baleful heresies.
Fought Ethelbert, of Sexford, in your host?

King.
He did, my rev'rend father, bravely fought:
To him and valiant Selred, Mollo's son,
Belong the second honours of the day.

[Hexulf looks abashed and is silent.
Enter Edward attended, who, after making his obeisance to the King, runs up eagerly to Seagurth.
Edw.
You are not wounded, father?

Sea.
No, my boy.

Edw.
Thanks to preserving goodness! Noble Thanes,
It grieves me much to see those swathed limbs.
War wears a horrid, yet alluring face.
(To King.)
Your friends, my lord, have done me great despite.
Had they not long detain'd me on the way,
I should have been with you before the battle.

King.
Complain not, youth; they had, in this, commands
Too high to be disputed. And 'tis well,
For we have had a rough and bloody day.

Edw.
Ha! is it so? But you have been victorious.
How went the field?

Sea.
Loud rose our battle's sound, and for a while
The Mercians bravely fought; when all at once,
From some unlook'd-for cause, as yet unknown,
A powerful panic seiz'd our better wing,
Which, back recoiling, turn'd and basely fled.
Touch'd quickly with a seeming sympathy,
Our centre-force began, in relax'd strength,
To yield contended space.—So stood the field;
When on a sudden, like those warrior spirits,
Whose scatter'd locks the streamy light'ning is,
Whose spear the bolt of heaven; such as the seer
In 'tranced gaze beholds midst hurtling storms;
Rush'd forth a youth unknown, and in a pass,
Narrow and steep, took his determin'd stand.
His beck'ning hand and loud commanding voice
Constrain'd our flying soldiers from behind,
And the sharp point of his opposing spear
Met the pale rout before.
The dark returning battle thicken'd round him.
His mighty arm deeds of amazement wrought;
Rapid, resistless, terrible.
High rose each warlike bosom at the sight,
And Mercia, like a broad increasing wave,
Up swell'd into a hugely billow'd height,
O'erwhelming in its might all lesser things,
Upon the foe return'd. Selred and Ethelbert
Fell on their weaken'd flank. Confusion, then,
And rout and horrid slaughter fill'd the field:
Wide spread the keen pursuit; the day is ours;
Yet many a noble Mercian strews the plain.

Edw.
(eagerly).
But the young hero fell not?

Sea.
No, my son.

Edw.
Then bless'd be heaven! there beats no noble heart
Which shall not henceforth love him as a brother.
Would he were come unhurt from the pursuit!
O that I had beheld him in his might,
When the dark battle turn'd!

Sea.
Your wish is soon fulfill'd, my eager boy;
For here, in truth, the youthful warrior comes,
And, captive by his side, the British Prince.

Enter Ethwald with the British Prince prisoner, accompanied by Selred and Ethelbert, and presents his prisoner to the King.
King
(to Prince).
Prince of the Britons, clear thy cloudy brow;
The varied fate of war the bravest prove.
And though I might complain that thy aggressions
Have burnt my towns, and filled my land with blood,
Thy state forbids it. Here, good seneschal,
Receive your charge, and let him know no change
Unsuited to a prince.
(To Ethwald.)
And thou, brave warrior, whose youthful arm
Has brought unto thy king so high a gift,
Say what proud man may lift his honour'd head,
And boast he is thy father.

Ethw.
A Thane, my lord, forgotten and retired;
I am the youngest son of aged Mollo,
And Ethwald is my name.

King.
Youngest in years, though not in honour, youth,
E'en though the valiant Selred is thy brother.
(Turning to Selred.)
And now be thou the first and noble root,
From which a noble race shall take its growth,
Wearing thy honours proudly!
Of Mairnieth's earldom be henceforth the lord!
For well I know the council of the states
Will not refuse to ratify my grant.
And thou, brave Ethelbert, and Selred, too,
Ye well have earn'd a noble recompense,
And shall not be forgot. Come hither, Edward;
Take thou this hero's hand; and, noble Ethwald,
Thus let the kingdom's ethling join with me
In honouring thy worth.

Edw.
(who has gazed at some distance upon Ethwald, springing forward eagerly).
Give him my hand, my lord! have you not said
That I should fold him to my burning heart?
(Embraces Ethw.)
Most valiant Ethwald,
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee,
But they do choke and flutter in my throat,
And make me like a child.

(Passing his hand across his eyes.)
Ethw.
(kissing Edward 's hand).
I am repaid beyond a kingdom's worth.

Edw.
(to Sea. bounding joyfully).
Father, have you embraced him?
Ethwald, my father is a valiant man.

(Sea. embraces Ethw., but not so eagerly as Edw.)
King.
(to Ethw.)
Brave youth, with you, and with your noble friends,
I shall, ere long, have further conference.

(Retires to the bottom of the stage with Hexulf.)
[Edward, after gazing with admiration upon Ethw., puts his hand upon his head, as if to measure his height; then upon both his shoulders, as if he were considering the breadth of his chest; then steps some paces back and gazes at him again.
Edw.
How tall and strong thou art! broad is thy chest:
Stretch forth, I pray, that arm of mighty deeds.
Ethw. smiles and stretches out his arm; Edw. looks at it, and then at his own.
Would I were nerv'd like thee!
(Taking Ethw.'s sword.)
It is of weight to suit no vulgar arm.
(Returning it.)
There, hero; graceful is the sword of war
In its bold master's grasp.

Ethw.
Nay, good my lord, if you will honour me,
It does become too well your noble hand
To be return'd to mine.

Edw.
Ha! sayst thou so? Yes, I will keep thy pledge.
Perhaps my arm—Ah, no! it will not be!
But what returning token can I give?
I have bright spears and shields and shining blades
But nought ennobled by the owner's use.

[Takes a bracelet from his arm and fastens it round Ethwald's.
King
(advancing from the bottom of the stage).
My worthy chiefs and Thanes, the night wears on,
The rev'rend bishop, and these pious men,
Beneath their fane give hospitality,
And woo us to accept it for the night.

Sea.
I thought, my lord, you meant to pass the night
With your brave soldiers in the open field:
Already they have learnt the pleasing tale.
Shall I unsay it?

King.
Nay, that were unfit.
I pray you pardon me, my rev'rend father!
I cannot house with you; it were unfit.

Hex.
Should not your greatness spend the night with those
To whom, in truth, you owe the victory?
We chant at midnight to St. Alban's praise:
Surely my lord regards those sacred things.

[Whispers the King.
King.
Brave Seagurth, there are reasons of good weight
Why I should lay aside my first intent.
Let all these wounded chieftains follow me!
The rest who list may keep the open field.
(To Edw.)
Nephew, thou must not prove a soldier's hardships,
Ere thou hast earn'd a soldier's name. Nay, nay,
It must be so.

[Exeunt King, wounded chiefs, Hexulf, and monks, followed by Edward very unwillingly.
Sea.
Who loves a soldier's pillow, follow me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The outside of Mollo's castle. Bertha, Sigurtha, and others discovered on the walls, and several servants and retainers standing by the gate below.
Berth.
O, will they ne'er appear? I'll look no more;
Mine eager gazing but retards their coming.
[Retires, and immediately returns again.
Holla, good Murdoch!
(To a servant below.)
Thou putst thy hand above thy sunned eyes.
Dost thou descry them?

1st serv.
Mercy, gentle lady,
If you descry them not from that high perch,
How should I from my level station here?

Sig.
(to Berth.)
Go in, my child, thou art worn out with watching.

[Berth. retires, and 2d servant goes at some distance from the walls and looks out another way.
2d serv.
Here comes the noble Selred.
(All call out.)
Noble Selred!

Berth.
(returning upon the wall).
What, Ethwald, say ye?

Sig.
No, it is Selred.

Enter Selred, with followers, and looks up to the walls, where Sigurtha waves her hand.
Sig.
Welcome, brave Selred! welcome all thy band!
How far are they behind for whom we watch?

Sel.
Two little miles or less. Methinks ere this
Their van should be in sight. My messenger
Inform'd you?

Sig.
Oh, he did!

Sel.
Where is my father?

Sig.
He rests within, spent with a fearful joy,
And silent tears steal down his furrow'd cheeks.

Sel.
I must confer with him. The king intends
To stop and do him honour on his march,
But enters not our walls.

[Exeunt into the castle.

SCENE III.

A chamber in the castle. Enter Sigurtha and Bertha, speaking as they enter.
Berth.
Nay, mother, say not so: was he not wont,
If but returning from the daily chase,
To send an upward glance unto that tower?
There well he knew, or late or cold the hour,
His eye should find me.

Sig.
My gentle Bertha, be not thus disturb'd.
Such busy scenes, such new unlook'd-for things
Ruffle the flowing stream of habit; men
Will then forgetful seem, though not unkind.

Berth.
Thinkst thou?
(shaking her head.)
I saw him by his sovereign stand,
And O, how graceful! every eye to him
Was turn'd, and every face smil'd honours on him!
Yet his proud station quickly did he leave
To greet his humbler friends who stood aloof.
The meanest follower of these walls, already,
Some mark of kind acknowledgment hath had—
He look'd not up—I am alone forgotten!

Sig.
Be patient, child: he will not long delay
To seek thee in thy modest privacy;
Approving more to see thee here retired,
Than, boldly to the army's eye exposed,
Greeting his first approach. I, the mean while,
Intrusted am with orders from the Thane.
Which must not be neglected.

[Exit.
Berth.
(after walking up and down, agitated, and frequently stopping to listen).
Ah, no! deceiv'd again! I need not listen!
No bounding steps approach.

[She sits down despondingly. Enter Ethwald behind, and steals softly up to her.
Ethw.
Bertha!

Berth.
(starting up).
My Ethwald!

[He holds out his arms to her joyfully, and she bursts into tears.
Ethw.
Thou dost not grieve that I am safe return'd?

Berth.
O no! I do not grieve, yet I must weep.
Hast thou in truth been kind? I will not chide:
I cannot do it now.

Ethw.
O, fie upon thee! like a wayward child:
To look upon me thus! cheer up, my love.

[He smiles upon her joyfully, and her countenance brightens. She then puts her hand upon his arm, and, stepping back a little space, surveys him with delight.
Berth.
Thou man of mighty deeds!
Thou, whom the brave shall love and princes honour!
Dost thou, in truth, return to me again,
Mine own, my very Ethwald?

Ethw.
No, that were paltry; I return to thee
A thousandfold the lover thou hast known me.
I have of late been careless of thee, Bertha.
The hopeless calm of dull obscurity,
Like the thick vapours of a stagnant pool,
Oppress'd my heart and smother'd kind affections;
But now th' enlivening breeze of fortune wakes
My torpid soul—When did I ever fold thee
To such a warm and bounding heart as this?
[Embraces her.
The king has given to me Mairnieth's earldom—
Nay, smile, my Bertha!

Berth.
So I do, my Ethwald.

Ethw.
The noble ethling greatly honours me
With precious tokens; nay, the very soldiers
Do rear their pointed weapons as I pass;
As though it were to say, “there goes the man
That we would cheerly follow.”
Unto what end these fair beginnings point
I know not—but of this I am assured,
There is a course of honour lies before me,
Be it with dangers, toil, or pain beset,
Which I will boldly tread. Smiles not my love?

Berth.
I should, in truth; but how is this? methinks
Thou ever lookst upon the things to come,
I on the past. A great and honour'd man
I know thou'lt be: but O, bethink thee, then,
How once thou wert, within these happy walls,
A little cheerful boy, with curly pate,
Who led the infant Bertha by the hand,
Storing her lap with ev'ry gaudy flower;
With speckled eggs stolen from the hedgeling's nest,
And berries from the tree; ay, think on this,
And then I know thou'lt love me!
[Trumpet sounds. Catching hold of him eagerly.
Hearst thou that sound? The blessed saints preserve thee!
Must thou depart so soon?

Ethw.
Yes, of necessity: reasons of weight
Constrain the king, and I, new in his service,
Must seem to follow him with willing steps.
But go thou with me to the castle gate.
We will not part until the latest moment.

Berth.
Yet stop, I pray, thou must receive my pledge.
Seest thou this woven band of many dyes,
Like to a mottled snake? its shiny woof
Was whiten'd in the pearly dew of eve,
Beneath the silver moon; its varied warp
Was dyed with potent herbs, at midnight cull'd.
It hath a wond'rous charm: the breast that wears it
No change of soft affection ever knows.

Eth.
(receiving it with a smile).
I'll wear it, Bertha.
[Trumpet sounds.
Hark! it calls me hence.

Berth.
O go not yet! here is another gift,
This ring, enrich'd with stone of basilisk,
Whenever press'd by the kind wearer's hand,
Presents the giver's image to his mind.
Wilt thou not wear it?

Ethw.
(receiving it).
Yes, and press it too.

Berth.
And in this purse—

[Taking out a purse
Ethw.
What! still another charm?
[Laughing.
Thou simple maid!
Dost thou believe that witched gear like this
Hath power a lover faithful to retain,
More than thy gentle self?

Berth.
Nay, laugh, but wear them.

Ethw.
I will, my love, since thou wilt have it so.
(Putting them in his breast.)
Here are they lodged, and cursed be the hand
That plucks them forth! And now receive my pledge.
It is a jewel of no vulgar worth:
(Ties it on her arm.)
Wear it and think of me. But yet, belike,
It must be steeped in some wizard's pot,
Or have some mystic rhyming mutter'd o'er it,
Ere it will serve the turn.

Berth.
(pressing the jewel on her arm).
O no! right well I feel there is no need.

Ethw.
Come, let us go: we do not part, thou knowst,
But at the castle gate. Cheer up, my Bertha!
I'll soon return, and oft return again.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethwald and Alwy, speaking as they enter.
Ethw.
What, peace! peace, sayst thou, with these glorious arms,
In conquest red, occasion bright'ning round us,
And smiling victory, with beck'ning hand,
Pointing to future fields of nobler strife,
With richer honours crown'd? What, on the face
Of such fair prospects draw the veil of peace!
Cold blasting peace! The blackest fiend of hell
Hath not a thought more dev'lish!

Alwy.
It is indeed a flat unpleasant tale
For a young warrior's ear: but well hast thou
Improv'd the little term of bold occasion;
Short while thou wert but Mollo's younger son,
Now art thou Mairnieth's lord.

Ethw.
And what is Mairnieth's lordship! I will own
That, to my distant view, such state appear'd
A point of fair and noble eminence;
But now—what is it now? O! it is sunk
Into a petty knoll! I am as one
Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height,
And having gain'd what to the upcast eye
The summit's point appear'd, astonish'd sees
Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged,
Towering aloft, as distant as before.

Alwy.
Patience, brave Ethwald; ere thy locks be grey,
Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower,
And fair occasion shape thee fair reward.

Ethw.
Ere that my locks be grey! the world ere now
Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. But I—
I am as one who mounts to th' azure sky
On the rude billow's back, soon sunk again:
Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud,
The terror of a moment. Fate perverse!
'Till now, war's frowning spirit, rous'd, was wont
To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds,
Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land
From bound to bound beneath his axle shook.
But soon as in my hand the virgin spear
Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turn'd
Like a tired braggart to his caves of sloth.
(Stamping on the ground.)
Peace! cursed peace! Who will again unchain
The grizly dog of war?

Alwy.
Meanst thou the British prince?

Ethw.
(eagerly).
What sayst thou, Alwy?

Alwy.
I said not aught.

Ethw.
Nay, marry! but thou didst!
And it has rais'd a thought within my mind.
The British prince releas'd, would he not prove
A dog of war, whose yell would soon be follow'd?

Alwy.
They do indeed full hard advantage take
Of his captivity, and put upon him
Conditions suited to his hapless state,
More than his princely will.

Ethw.
'Tis basely done: would that some friendly hand
His prison would unbar and free the thrall!
But no, no, no! I to the king resign'd him;
'Twere an unworthy deed.

Alwy.
It were most difficult;
For now they keep him in a closer hold,
And bind his hands with iron.

Ethw.
Have they done this? I'm glad on't! O I'm glad on't!
They promised nought unworthy of a prince
To put upon him—Now my hands are free!
And, were it made of living adamant,
I will unbar his door. Difficult, sayst thou?
No, this hath made it easy.

Alwy.
Well softly then; we may devise a way
By which the seneschal himself will seem
The secret culprit in this act.

Ethw.
No, no!
I like it not; though I must work i' the dark,
I'll not in cunningly devised light
Put on my neighbour's cloak to cause his ruin.
But let's to work apace! the storm shall rise!
My sound shall yet be heard!

Alwy.
Fear not, thou shalt ere long be heard again,
A dark'ning storm which shall not soon be lay'd.

Ethw.
Ah, thou hast touch'd where my life's life is cell'd!
Is there a voice of prophecy within thee?
[Catching hold of his arm eagerly.
I will believe there is! my stirring soul
Leapt at thy words. Such things ere now have been:
Men oft have spok'n, unweeting, of themselves;
Yea, the wild winds of night have utter'd words,
That have unto the list'ning ear of hope
Of future greatness told, ere yet the thoughts
On any certain point had fix'd their hold.

Alwy.
Thou mayst believe it: I myself, methinks,
Feel secret earnest of thy future fortune;
And please myself to think my friendly hand
May humbly serve, perhaps, to build thy greatness.

Ethw.
Come to my heart, my friend! though new in friendship,
Thou, and thou only, bearst true sympathy
With my aspiring soul. I can with thee
Unbar my mind—Methinks thou shiv'rest, Alwy.

Alwy.
'Tis very cold.

Ethw.
Is it? I feel it not:
But in my chamber burns the crackling oak,
There let us go.

Alwy.
If you are so inclin'd.

[As they are going, Ethw. stops short, and catches hold of Alwy eagerly.
Ethw.
A sudden fancy strikes me: Woggarwolfe,
That restless ruffian, might with little art
Be rous'd on Wessex to commit aggression:
Its royal chief, now leaguing with our king,
Will take the field again.

Alwy.
We might attempt him instantly: but move,
In faith I'm cold!

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A dark apartment in the same castle. Woggarwolfe is discovered asleep upon a couch of rushes, and covered with a mat. Enter Alwy and a follower, with a lad bearing a torch before them. Alwy signs with his hand, and the torch-bearer retires to a distance.
Alwy.
Softly, ere we proceed; a sudden thought,
Now crossing o'er my mind, disturbs me much.
He who to-night commands the farther watch,
Canst thou depend upon him?

Fol.
Most perfectly; and, free of hostile bounds,
The British prince ere this pursues his way.

Alwy.
I'm satisfied: now to our present purpose.
[As they advance towards the couch, Woggarwolfe is heard speaking in his sleep.
Ha! speaks he in his sleep? some dream disturbs him:
His quiv'ring limbs beneath the cov'ring move.
He speaks again.

Wog.
(in his sleep).
Swift, in your package stow those dead men's gear,
And loose their noble coursers from the stall.

Alwy.
Ay, plund'ring in his sleep.

Wog.
Wipe thou that blade:
Those bloody throats have drench'd it to the hilt.

Alwy.
O, hear the night-thoughts of that bloody hound!
I must awake him. Ho, brave Woggarwolfe!

Wog.
Hear how those women scream! we'll still them shortly.

Alwy.
Ho, Woggarwolfe!

Wog.
Who calls me now? cannot you master it?
[Alwy knocks upon the ground with his stick.
What, batt'ring on it still? Will it not yield?
Then fire the gate.

Alwy
(shaking him).
Ho, Woggarwolfe, I say!

Wog.
(starting up half awake).
Is not the castle taken?

Alwy.
Yes, it is taken.

Wog.
(rubbing his eyes).
Pooh! it is but a dream.

Alwy.
But dreams full oft are found of real events
The forms and shadows.
There is in very deed a castle taken,
In which your Wessex foes have left behind
Nor stuff, nor store, nor make of living thing.
Bind on thy sword and call thy men to arms!
Thy boiling blood will bubble in thy veins,
When thou hast heard it is the tower of Boruth.

Wog.
My place of strength?

Fol.
Yes, chief; I spoke with one new from the West,
Who saw the ruinous broil.

Wog.
By the black fiends of hell! therein is stored
The chiefest of my wealth. Upon its walls
The armour of a hundred fallen chiefs
Did rattle to the wind.

Alwy.
Now will it sound elsewhere.

Wog.
(in despair).
My noble steeds, and all my stalled kine!
O, the fell hounds! no mark of living thing?

Fol.
No mark of living thing.

Wog.
Ah! and my little arrow-bearing boy!
He whom I spared amidst a slaughter'd heap,
Smiling all weetless of th' uplifted stroke
Hung o'er his harmless head!
Like a tamed cub I rear'd him at my feet:
He could tell biting jests, bold ditties sing,
And quaff his foaming bumper at the board,
With all the the mock'ry of a little man.
By heav'n I'll leave alive within their walls
Nor maid, nor youth, nor infant at the breast,
If they have slain that child! blood-thirsty ruffians!

Alwy.
Ay, vengeance! vengeance! rouse thee like a man!
Occasion tempts; the foe, not yet return'd,
Have left their castle careless of defence.
Call all thy followers secretly to arms:
Set out upon the instant.

Wog.
By holy saints, I will! reach me, I pray!

[Pointing to his arms lying at a little distance from him.
Alwy
(giving them).
There, be thou speedy.

Wog.
(putting on his armour).
Curse on those loosen'd springs, they will not catch!
Oh, all the goodly armour I have lost!
Light curses on my head! if I do leave them
Or spear, or shield, or robe, or household stuff,
Or steed within their stalls, or horn or hoof
Upon their grassy hills! (Looking about.)
What want I now?
Mine armour-man hath ta'en away my helm—
Faith, and my target too! hell blast the buzzard!

[Exit furiously.
Alwy
(laughing).
Ethwald, we have fulfill'd thy bidding well,
With little cost of craft! But let us follow,
And keep him to the bent.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A small close grove, with a steep rocky bank at one end of it. Several Peasants are discovered standing upon the bank, as if looking at some distant sight.
1st peas.
Good lack a day! how many living souls,
In wide confused eddying motion mix'd,
Like cross set currents on the restless face
Of winter floods!

2d peas.
Where fight the Northern Mercians?

1st peas.
On the right.
The gentle ethling, as I am inform'd,
Fights likewise on the right: heav'n spare his head!
'Tis his first battle.

3d peas.
Hear, hear! still louder swells that horrid sound.

1st peas.
Ay, many voices join in that loud din,
Which soon shall shout no more.

3d peas.
Ay, good neighbour,
Full gloriously now looks that cover'd field,
With all those moving ranks and glitt'ring arms;
But he who shall return by setting sun
Will see a sorry sight.

[A loud distant noise.
1st peas.
Heav'n save us all! it is the warlike yell
Of those damn'd Britons that increaseth so.
By all the holy saints our men are worsted!
[An increasing noise heard without.
Look! yonder look! they turn their backs and flee.

3d peas.
O blasting shame! where fights brave Ethwald now?
He is, I fear, far in the distant wing.
Let us be gone! we are too near them here:
The flight comes this way: hear that horrid sound!
The saints preserve us!

[The sound of the battle increases, and is heard nearer. The peasants come hastily down from the bank, and exeunt. Enter Edward with several followers disordered and panicstricken.
1st fol.
(looking round).
They cease to follow us: this tangled grove
Has stopp'd the fell pursuit: here may we rest.

[Edward throws himself down at the root of a tree, and covers his face with his hands.
2d fol.
(filling his helmet with water from a stream, and presenting it to Edw.)
My prince, this cooling water will refresh you.

Edw.
(keeping his face still covered with one hand, and waving him off with the other).
Away, away! and do not speak to me!

[A deep pause, the noise of the battle is again heard coming nearer.
1st fol.
We must not tarry here.
(To Edw.)
My lord, the farther thickets of this wood
Will prove a sure concealment: shall we move?

Edw.
(still covering his face).
Let the earth gape and hide me.

(Another deep pause.
3d fol.
to 1st.
The sin of all this rout falls on thy head,
Thou cursed Thane! thou and thy hireling knaves
First turn'd your backs and fled.

1st fol.
to 3d.
Thou liest, foul tongue! it was thy kinsman there
Who first did turn; for I was borne away,
[Pointing to 4th fol.
Unwillingly away, by the rude stream
Of his fear-stricken bands. When, till this hour,
Did ever armed Briton see my back?

4th fol.
Arm'd Britons dost thou call them?— devils they are!
Thou knowst right well they deal with wicked sprites.
Those horrid yells were not the cries of men;
And fiends of hell look'd through their flashing eyes.
I fear to face the power of simple man
As little as thyself.

Enter more Fugitives.
1st fol.
(to Edw.)
Up, my good lord! Hence let us quickly move;
We must not stay.

Edw.
Then thrust me through and leave me.
I'll flee no more.
(Looking up wildly, then fixing his eyes wistfully upon 3d follower, and bending one knee to the ground.)
Ebbert, thy sword is keen, thy arm is strong;
O, quickly do't! and I shall be with those
Who feel nor shame nor panic.

[3d fol. and several others turn their faces away and weep. Enter more fugitives.
1st fol.
What, is all lost?

1st fug.
Yes, yes! our wing is beaten.
Seagurth alone, with a few desp'rate men,
Still sets his aged breast against the storm:
But thick the aimed weapons round him fly,
Like huntsmen's arrows round the toiled boar.
And he will soon be nothing.

Edw.
(starting up).
O, God! O, living God! my noble father!
He has no son!—Off, ye debasing fears!
I'll tear thee forth, base heart, if thou dost let me.
[Coming forward and stretching out his arms.
Companions, noble Mercians—Ah, false word!
I may not call you noble. Yet, perhaps,
One gen'rous spark within your bosom glows.
Sunk in disgrace still lower than ye all,
I may not urge—Who lists will follow me!

All with one voice.
We will all follow thee!

Edw.
Will ye, in truth? then we'll be brave men
still.
[Brandishing his sword as he goes off.
My noble father!

[Exeunt, clashing their arms.

SCENE II.

A confused noise of a battle is heard. The scene draws up and discovers the British and Mercian armies engaged. Near the front of the stage they are seen in close fight, and the ground strewed with several wounded and dead soldiers, as if they had been fighting for some time. Farther off, missile weapons and showers of arrows darken the air, and the view of the more distant battle is concealed in thick clouds of dust. The Mercians gain ground upon the Britons; and loud cries are raised by them to encourage one another. An active Mercian falls, and their progress is stopped whilst they endeavour to bear him off.
Fallen Mercian.
I'm slain, I'm slain! tread o'er me, and push forward.

Mer. Chief.
O stop not thus! to it again, brave Mercians!

[The Mercians push on, encouraging one another with cries and clashing of arms; one of their bravest soldiers is wounded on the front of the stage and staggers backwards.
Wounded Mer.
Ay, this is death; O that my life had held
To see the end of this most noble game!
[Falls down, but seeing the Mercians about to push the Britons off the stage, raises himself half from the ground and claps his hands exultingly.
Well fought, brave Mercians! On, my noble Mercians!
[Sinks down again.
I am in darkness now! a clod o' the earth!

[Dies.
Britons
(without).
Fresh succour, Britons! courage! victory!
Carwallen and fresh succour!

[The Britons now raise a terrible yell, and push back the Mercians, who yield ground and become spiritless and relaxed as their enemy becomes bolder. The Britons at last seize the Mercian standard, and raise another terrible yell, whilst the Mercians give way on every side.
1st falling Mer.
Horror and death! the hand of wrath is o'er us!

2d falling Mer.
A fell and fearful end! a bloody lair!
The trampling foe to tread out brave men's breath.

[The Britons yell again, and the Mercians are nearly beat off the stage.
(Voice without.)
Ethwald! the valiant Ethwald! succour, Mercians!
(Voice within.)
Hear ye, brave comrades? Ethwald is at hand.
Enter Ethwald with his sword drawn.
Ethw.
What, soldiers! yield ye thus, while vict'ry smiles
And bids us on to th' bent? Your northern comrades
Mock at their savage howls, and drive before them
These chafed beasts of prey. Come! to it bravely!
To it, and let their mountain matrons howl,
For these will soon be silent.
Give me the standard.

Voice.
They have taken it.

Ethw.
Taken! no, by the spirits of the brave!
Standard of ours on Snowdon winds to float!
No! this shall fetch it back!

[Taking off his helmet and throwing it into the midst of the enemy, then rushing upon them bare-headed and sword in hand. The Mercians clash their arms and raise a great shout: the Britons are driven off the stage; whilst many of the dying Mercians clap their hands and raise a feeble shout after their comrades. The scene closes.

SCENE III.

An open space before a royal tent; the curtains of which are drawn up, and show a company of warriors and dames within it. On either side of the open stage soldiers are drawn up in order. Enter two petty Thanes on the front of the stage.
1st Thane.
Here let us stand and see the ceremony.
Without the tent, 'tis said the king will crown
The gallant ethling with a wreath of honour,
As the chief agent in this victory
O'er stern Carwallen and his Britons gain'd.

2d Thane.
Thou sayest well. Within the royal tent
They wait, as I am told, the ethling's coming,
Who is full tardy. Softly, they come forth.
How like a ship with all her goodly sails
Spread to the sun, the haughty princess moves!

[A flourish of trumpets. Enter from the tent the King, with Ethelbert, Edrick, Thanes, and attendants; and Elburga, with Dwina and ladies. They advance towards the front of the stage.
King.
Nay, sweet Elburga, clear thy frowning brow;
He who is absent will not long delay
His pleasing duty here.

Elb.
On such a day, my lord, the brave I honour,
As those who have your royal arms maintain'd
In war's iron field, such honour meriting.
What individual chiefs, or here or absent,
May therein be concern'd, I little care;
I deign not to regard it.

King.
Thou art offended, daughter, but unwisely.
Plumed with the fairest honours of the field,
Such pious grief for a brave father's death,
Bespeaks a heart such as a gentle maid
In her faith-plighted lord should joy to find.

Elb.
Who best the royal honours of a prince
Maintains, best suits a royal maiden's love.

King.
Elburga, thou forgetst that gentleness
Which suits thy gentle kind.

Elb.
(with much assumed stateliness).
I hope, my lord,
I do meantime that dignity remember,
Which doth beseem the daughter of a king!

King.
Fie! clear thy cloudy brow! it is my will
Thou honour graciously his modest worth.
[Elb. bows, but smiles disdainfully.
By a well feigned flight, he was the first
Who broke the stubborn foe, op'ning the road
To victory. Here, with some public mark
Of royal favour, by the hand receiv'd,
I will to honour him; for, since the battle,
A gloomy melancholy o'er him broods,
E'en far exceeding what a father's death
Should cast upon a youthful victor's triumph.
Ah! here he comes! look on that joyless face!

Elb.
(aside to Dwina, looking scornfully to Edward as he approaches).
Look with what slow and piteous gait he comes!
Like younger brother of a petty Thane,
Timing his footsteps to his father's dirge.

Dwina.
(aside).
Nay, to my fancy it is wond'rous graceful.

Elb.
(contemptuously).
A youth, indeed, who might with humble grace
Beneath thy window tell his piteous tale.

Enter Edward followed by Ethwald and attend-ants.
King.
Approach, my son: so will I call thee now.
Here is a face whose smiles should gild thy honours
If thou art yet awake to beauty's power.

Edw.
(kissing Elburga 's hand respectfully).
Honour'd I am indeed; most dearly honour'd;
I feel it here (his hand on his heart),
and should be joyful too,
If aught could gild my gloom.
[Sighs very deeply, then suddenly recollecting himself.
Elburga, thou wert ever fond of glory,
And ever quick to honour valiant worth;
Ethwald, my friend—hast thou forgotten Ethwald?

[Presenting Ethw. to her.
Elb.
Could I forget the warlike Thane of Mairnieth,
I must have barr'd mine ears against all sound;
For every voice is powerful in his praise,
And every Mercian tongue repeats his name.

[Smiling graciously upon Ethw.
King
(impatiently).
Where go we now? we wander from our purpose.
Edward, thy youthful ardour season'd well
With warlike craft, has crown'd my age with glory;
Here be thy valour crown'd, it is my will,
With honour's wreath, from a fair hand receiv'd.

[Giving the wreath to Elburga.
Edw.
(earnestly).
I do beseech you, uncle!—pray receive
My grateful thanks! the mournful cypress best
Becomes my brow; this honour must not be.

King.
Nay, lay aside unseemly diffidence;
It must be so.

Edw.
(impressively).
My heart is much depress'd:
O do not add
The burden of an undeserved honour,
To bend me to the earth!

King.
These warlike chieftains say it is deserv'd,
And nobly earn'd. It is with their concurrence
That now I offer thee this warrior's wreath;
Yes, ethling, and command thee to receive it.
(Holding up his hand.)
There, let the trumpet sound.

[Trumpets sound.
Edw.
(holding up his hands distractedly).
Peace, peace! nor put me to this agony!
[Trumpets cease.
And am I then push'd to this very point?
Well, then, away deceit! too long hast thou
Like the incumbent monster of a dream
On the stretch'd sleeper's breast, depress'd my soul;
I shake thee off, foul mate! O, royal sire,
And you, ye valiant Mercians, hear the truth!
Ye have believ'd, that by a feigned flight,
I gain'd the first advantage o'er the foe,
And broke their battle's strength; O would I had!
That flight, alas! was real; the sudden impulse
Of a weak mind, unprov'd and strongly struck
With new and horrid things, until that hour
Unknown and unimagin'd.—
Nor was it honour's voice that call'd me back;
The call of nature saved me. Noble Seagurth,
Had I been son of any sire but thee,
I had in dark and endless shame been lost,
Nor e'er again before these valiant men
Stood in this royal presence.
In all my fortune, I am blest alone
That my brave father, rescued by these arms,
Look'd on me, smiling through the shades of death,
And knew his son. He was a noble man!
He never turn'd from danger—but his son—

(Many voices at once.)
His son is worthy of him!

(Repeated again with more voices.)
His son is worthy of him!

Ethelbert (with enthusiasm).
His son is worthy
Of the noblest sire that ever wielded sword!

Voices.
Crown him, fair princess! Crown the noble Edward!

[Elburga offers him the wreath, which he puts aside vehemently.
Edw.
Forbear! a band of scorpions round my brow
Would not torment me like this laurel wreath.

[Elb. turns from him contemptuously, and gives the wreath to the King.
Edw.
(to King).
What, good my lord! is there not present here
A Mercian brow deserving of that wreath?
Shall he, who did with an uncover'd head
Your battle fight, still wear his brows unbound?
Do us not this disgrace!

King
(fretfully).
Thou dost forget the royal dignity:
Take it away.

Giving it to an officer.)
[A confused murmuring amongst the soldiers. (Aside to the seneschal, alarmed.)
Sen.
(aside to King).
Your troops, my sire, are much dissatisfied,
For that their favourite chief by you is deem'd
Unworthy of the wreath.

King
(aside).
What, is it so? call back mine officer.
(Taking the wreath again, and giving it to Elb.)
This wreath was meant for one of royal line,
But every noble Mercian, great in arms,
Is equal to a prince.
Crown the most valiant Ethwald.

Elb.
(crowning Ethw. with great assumed majesty).
Long may thy laurels flourish on thy brow,
Most noble chief!

[Ethw. takes the wreath and presses it to his lips, bowing to Elb., then to the King.
Ethw.
They who beneath the royal banner fight,
Unto the fortunes of their royal chief
Their success owe. Honour'd, indeed, am I
That the brave ethling hath so favour'd me,
And that I may, most humbly at your feet,
My royal sire, this martial garland lay.

[He, kneeling, lays the wreath at the King's feet; the King raises him up and embraces him; the soldiers clash their arms and call out.
Sold.
Long live the king! and long live noble Ethwald!

[This is several times repeated. Exeunt King, Edward, Elburga, &c. &c.; Elburga looking graciously to Ethwald as she goes off. Manent Ethwald and Ethelbert.
Eth.
(repeating indignantly as they go off).
Long live the king, and long live noble Ethwald!
Fie on the stupid clowns, that did not join
The gen'rous Edward's name!
(To Ethw., who is standing looking earnestly after the princess.)
What dost thou gaze on?

Ethw.
The princess look'd behind her as she went.

Eth.
And what is that to thee?
[Walks silently across the stage once or twice gloomy and dissatisfied, then turning short upon Ethw.
When wert thou last to see the lovely Bertha?

Ethw.
(hesitating).
I cannot reckon it unto the day—
Some moons ago.

Eth.
Some moons! the moon in her wide course shines not
Upon a maid more lovely.

Ethw.
I know it well.

Eth.
Thou dost.

Ethw.
(after a pause, looking attentively to Eth., who stands muttering to himself).
Methinks thou holdest converse with thyself.

Eth.
(speaking aloud, as if he continued to talk to himself).
She steps upon the flowery bosom'd earth,
As though it were a foot-cloth fitly placed
Beneath the tread of her majestic step;
And looks upon the human countenance,
Whereon her Maker hath the signs impress'd
Of all that He within the soul hath stored
Of great and noble, gen'rous and benign,
As on a molten plate, made to reflect
Her grandeur and perfections.

Ethw.
Of whom speakst thou?

Eth.
Not of the gentle Bertha.

[Exit.
Ethw.
What may he mean? He mark'd, with much displeasure,
The soldiers shout my name, and now my favour
With Mercia's princess frets him. What of this?
Ha! hath his active mind outrun mine own
In shaping future consequences? Yes,
It must be so, a curtain is withdrawn,
And to mine eye a goodly prospect shown,
Extending—No, I must not look upon it.

[Exit hastily.

SCENE IV.

An open space, with arms, garments, and other spoils of the Britons heaped up on every side of the stage. Enter Soldiers, and range themselves in order; then enter Ethelbert and a Soldier, talking as they enter.
Eth.
Ethwald among his soldiers, dost thou say,
Divides his spoil?

Sol.
He does, most bountifully;
Nor to himself more than a soldier's share
Retains, he is so gen'rous and so noble.

Eth.
I thank thee, friend.
[Soldier retires. (After a pause.)
I like not this: behind those heaps I'll stand,
And mark the manner of this distribution.

[Retires.
Enter Alwy and a petty Thane.
Alwy.
Brave warriors! ye are come at his desire,
Who for each humble soldier, bold in arms,
That has beneath his orders fought, still bears
A brother's heart. You see these goodly spoils:
He gives them not unto the cloister'd priests:
His soldiers pray for him.

[Soldiers shout.
Thane
(to Alwy).
What is thy meaning?

Alwy.
Knowest thou not the king has now bestow'd
The chiefest portion of his British spoil
On Alban's abbey?

Enter Ethwald.
(Soldiers shouting very loud.)
Long live brave Ethwald! health to noble Ethwald!
Ethw.
Thanks for these kindly greetings, valiant hearts!
[Soldiers shout again very loud.
In truth I stand before you, brave companions,
Somewhat asham'd; for with my wishes match'd,
These hands are poor and empty.
[Loud acclamations.
I thank you all again; for well I see
You have respect unto the dear good will
That must enrich these heaps of homely stuff.

Soldiers.
Long live our gen'rous leader!

Ethw.
(giving a soldier a helmet filled with lots).
Here, take the lots and deal them fairly round.
Heaven send to all of you, my valiant friends,
A portion to your liking. This rough heap
[Pointing to the arms.
Will give at least to each some warlike trophy,
Which henceforth, hung upon his humble walls,
Shall tell his sons and grandsons yet to come
In what proud fields, and with what gallant mates
Their father fought. And I, methinks, well pleas'd,
Resting, as heretofore I oft have done,
My wand'ring steps beneath your friendly roofs,
Shall, looking up, the friendly token spy,
And in my host a fellow soldier hail.

Soldiers
(with loud acclamations).
God bless you, noble chief! unto the death
We'll hold to you, brave leader!

Ethw.
And if to you I hold not, valiant Mercians,
No noble chief am I. This motley gear,
[Pointing to the spoils.
Would it were all composed of precious things,
That to his gentle wife or favour'd maid,
Each soldier might have borne some goodly gift!
But tell them, British matrons cross the woof
With coarser hands than theirs.

1st sol.
Saint Alban bless his noble countenance!
'Twas fashion'd for bestowing.

2d sol.
Heav'n store his halls with wealth!

Ethw.
(going familiarly amongst the soldiers as the lots are drawing).
Well, Ogar, hast thou drawn? good luck to thee.
And thou, good Baldwin, too? Yet fie upon it!
The heaviest weapon of the British host
Lacks weight of metal for thy sinewy arm.—
Ha! health to thee, mine old and honest host!
I'm glad to see thee with thine arm unbound.
And ruddy too! thy dame should give me thanks:
I send thee home to her a younger man
Than I receiv'd thee.
(To the soldier with the lots who is passing him.)
Nay, stay thee, friend, I pray, nor pass me o'er,
We all must share alike: hold out thy cap.
[Smiling as he draws.
The knave would leave me out.

[Loud acclamations, the soldiers surrounding him and clashing their arms.
Enter Selred and Followers.
Sel.
(to sol.)
Ha! whence comes all this uproar?

Sol.
Know you not?
Your noble brother 'midst his soldiers shares
His British spoils.

Sel.
The grateful knaves! is all their joy for this?
[To his followers.
Well, go and add to it my portion also;
'Twill make them roar the louder. Do it quickly.

[Exit.
Soldiers
(looking after Sel.).
Heaven bless him
too, plain, honest, careless soul!
He gives as though he gave not.
[Loud acclamations.
Long live brave Ethwald, and the noble Selred!

Ethw.
(aside to Alwy, displeased).
How came he here?

Alwy.
I cannot tell.

Ethw.
(to sol.)
We are confined within this narrow space:
Go range yourselves at large on yon green sward,
And there we'll spread the lots.

[Exeunt; the soldiers arranging themselves as they go.

SCENE V.

An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethelbert, and leans his back upon a pillar near the front of the stage, as if deeply engaged in gloomy thoughts: afterwards enters Ethwald by the opposite side, at the bottom of the stage, and approaches Eth. slowly, observing him attentively as he advances.
Ethw.
Thou art disturbed, Ethelbert.

Eth.
I am.

Ethw.
Thine eyes roll strangely, as though thou beheldst
Some dreadful thing:—
On what lookst thou?

Eth.
Upon my country's ruin.
The land is full of blood: her savage birds
O'er human carcases do scream and batten:
The silent hamlet smokes not; in the field
The aged grandsire turns the joyless soil:
Dark spirits are abroad, and gentle worth
Within the narrow house of death is laid,
An early tenant.

Ethw.
Thou'rt beside thyself!
Thinkst thou that I, with these good arms, will stand
And suffer all this wreck?

Eth.
Ha! sayst thou so? Alas, it is thyself
Who rul'st the tempest!

[Shaking his head solemnly.
Ethw.
If that I bear the spirit of a man,
Thou falsely seest! Thinkst thou I am a beast;
A fanged wolf, reft of all kindly sense,
That I should do such deeds?
I am a man aspiring to be great,
But loathing cruelty: who wears a sword
That will protect and not destroy the feeble.

[Putting his hand vehemently upon his sword.
Eth.
Ha! art thou roused? blessings on thy wrath!
I'll trust thee still. But see, the ethling comes,
And on his face he wears a smile of joy.

Enter Edward, advancing gaily to Ethwald.
Edw.
A boon, a boon, great Mairnieth's Thane, I crave.

Eth.
You come not with a suppliant's face, my lord.

Edw.
Not much cast down for lack of confidence
My suit to gain. That envious braggart there,
The chief of Bournoth, says, no Mercian arm,
Of man now living, can his grandsire's sword
In warlike combat wield: and, in good sooth!
I forfeit forty of my fattest kine
If Ethwald's arm does not the feat achieve.
(To Ethw.)
What sayst thou, friend? Methinks thou'rt grave and silent:
Hast thou so soon thy noble trade forgot?
Have at it then! I'll rouse thy spirit up:
I'll soldier thee again.
[Drawing his sword playfully upon Ethwald, who defends himself in like manner.
Fie on't! that was a wicked northern push:
It tells of thine old sports in Mollo's walls.
[Pauses and fights again.
To it again! How listless thou art grown!
Where is thy manhood gone?

Ethw.
Fear not, my lord, enough remains behind
To win your forty kine.

Edw.
I'll take thy word for't now: in faith, I'm tired!
I've been too eager in the morning's chace
To fight your noonday battles.
[Putting the point of his sword to the ground, and leaning familiarly upon Ethwald.
My arm, I fear, would make but little gain
With Bournoth's sword. By arms and brave men's love!
I could not brook to see that wordy braggart
Perching his paltry sire above thy pitch;
It rais'd my fiend within. When I am great,
I'll build a tower upon the very spot
Where thou didst first the British army stay,
And shame the grandsires of those mighty Thanes
Six ages deep. Lean I too hard upon thee?

Ethw.
No, nothing hard: most pleasant and most kindly.
Take your full rest, my lord.

Edw.
In truth, I do: methinks it does me good
To rest upon thy brave and valiant breast.

Eth.
(stepping before them with great animation).
Well said, most noble Edward!
The bosom of the brave is that on which
Rests many a head: but most of all, I trow,
Th' exposed head of princely youth thereon
Rests gracefully.

[Steps back some paces, and looks at them with delight.
Edw.
You look upon us, Thane, with eager eyes
And looks of meaning.

Eth.
Pardon me, I pray!
My fancy oftentimes will wildly play,
And strong conceits possess me.
Indulge my passing freak: I am a man
Upon whose grizzled head the work of time
Hath been by care perform'd, and, with the young,
Claiming the priv'lege of a man in years.
[Taking the hands of Edw. and Ethw. and joining them together.
This is a lovely sight! indulge my fancy:
And on this sword, it is a brave man's sword,
Swear that you will unto each other prove,
As prince and subject, true.

Edw.
No, no, good Thane!
As friends, true friends! that doth the whole include.
I kiss the honour'd blade.

(Kissing the sword held out by Eth.)
Eth.
(presenting the sword to Ethw.)
And what says noble Ethwald?

Ethw.
All that the brave should say.

(Kissing it also.)
Eth.
(triumphantly).
Now, Mercia, thou art strong! give me your hands;
Faith, I must lay them both upon my breast!
[Pressing both their hands to his breast.
This is a lovely sight!

Ethw.
(softened).
You weep, good Ethelbert.

Eth.
(brushing off his tears with his hand).
Yes, yes! such tears as doth the warm shower'd earth
Show to the kindly sun.

Edw.
(to Eth., gently clapping his shoulder).
I love this well: thou like a woman weepest,
And fightest like a man. But look, I pray!
There comes my arms-man with the braggart's sword:
Let us essay it yonder.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An apartment in a royal castle. Ethwald is discovered sitting in deep meditation by the side of a couch, with a lamp burning by him on a high stand: the rest of the stage entirely dark.
Ethw.
Why am I haunted with these thoughts?
What boots it
That from their weak and priest-beridden king
The soldiers turn distasteful, and on me
In mutter'd wishes call? What boots all this?
Occasion fairly smiles, but I am shackled;
Elsewhere I needs must turn my climbing thoughts,
But where? The youthful see around them spread
A boundless field of undetermin'd things,
Towering in tempting greatness:
But, to the closer scan of men matured,
These fade away, and in the actual state
Of times and circumstances each perceives
A path which doth to his advancement lead,
And only one; as to the dazzled eye
Of the night rev'ller, o'er his emptied bowl,
The multiplied and many whirling lights
Do shrink at last into one single torch,
Shedding a steady ray. I see my path:
But what is that to me? my steps are chain'd.
Amongst the mighty great, the earth's high lords,
There is no place for me! I must lie down
In the dark tomb with those, whose passing brightness
Shines for a while, but leaves no ray behind.

[Throws himself half upon the couch and groans heavily.
Enter Boy.
Boy.
My lord, my lord!
(Ethw. lifts up his head, and looks sternly at him.)
Are you unwell, my lord?

Ethw.
What dost thou want?

Boy.
I could not sleep: and as I list'ning lay
To the drear wind that whistles through these towers,
Methought I heard you groan like one in pain.

Ethw.
Away, and go to sleep: I want thee not:
I say, begone (sternly). [Exit boy.
[He pauses awhile, then sighs very deeply.

He hangs upon me like a dead man's grasp
On the wreck'd swimmer's neck—his boyish love
Was not my seeking; it was fasten'd on me,
And now it hath become an iron band
To fetter down my powers. O that I were
Amidst the warlike and ungentle cast
To strive uncumber'd! What have I to do
With soft affection? (Softened.)
Yet it needs must be!
His gen'rous love:—his brave ungrudging love:
His manly gentle love—O that he had
Mine equal friend been born, who in my rise
Had fair advancement found, and by my side
The next in honour stood!
He drags me to the earth! I needs must lay
My head i' the dust.—Dull hopeless privacy!
From it my soul recoils: unto my nature
It is the death of death, horrid and hateful.
(Starting up eagerly.)
No, in the tossed bark,
Commander of a rude tumultuous crew,
On the wild ocean would I rather live;
Or in the mined caverns of the earth
Untamed bands of lawless men control,
By crime and dire necessity enleagued:
Yea, in the dread turmoil of midnight storms,
If such there be, lead on the sable hosts
Of restless sprites, than say to mortal man
“Thou art my master.”

Enter Boy.
Boy.
O pardon me, my lord! I am in fear;
Strange sounds do howl and hurtle round my bed;
I cannot rest.

Ethw.
Begone, thou wakeful pest! I say, be-gone! [Exit boy.
[Ethw. walks several times across the stage and then pauses.

Yet in my mind one ever-present thought
Rises omnipotent o'er all the rest,
And says, “Thou shalt be great.”
What may this mean? before me is no way.
What deep endued seer will draw this veil
Of dark futurity? Of such I've heard,
But when the troubled seek for them, they are not.

Re-enter Boy.
(Stamping with his foot.)
What! here a third time?
Boy
(falling at his feet).
O, my noble master!
If you should slay me I must come to you;
For in my chamber fearful things there be,
That sound i' the dark; O, do not chide me back.

Ethw.
Strange sound within thy chamber, foolish wight!

Boy
(starting).
Good mercy, list!

Ethw.
It is some night-bird screaming on the tower.

Boy.
Ay, so belike it seemeth, but I know—

Ethw.
What dost thou know?

Boy.
It is no bird, my lord.

Ethw.
What wouldst thou say?

Boy
(clasping his hands together, and staring earnestly in Ethw.'s face).
At dead of night, from the dark Druid's cave
Up rise unhallow'd sprites, and o'er the earth
Hold for the term their wicked rule. Aloft,
Some mounted on the heavy sailing cloud,
Oft pour down noisome streams or biting hail
On the benighted hind, and from his home,
With wayward eddying blasts, still beat him back.
Some on the waters shriek like drowning men,
And, when the pitying passenger springs forth,
To lend his aid, the dark flood swallows him.
Some on lone marshes shine like moving lights;
And some on towers and castle turrets perch'd,
Do scream like nightly birds, to scare the good,
Or rouse the murd'rer to his bloody work.

Ethw.
The Druid's cave, sayst thou? What cave is that?
Where is it? Who hath seen it? What scar'd fool
Hath fill'd thine ears with all these horrid things?

Boy.
It is a cavern vast and terrible,
Under the ground full deep; perhaps, my lord,
Beneath our very feet, here as we stand;
For few do know the spot and centre of it,
Though many mouths it has and entries dark.
Some are like hollow pits bor'd through the earth,
O'er which the list'ning herdsman bends his ear,
And hears afar their lakes of molten fire
Swelt'ring and boiling like a mighty pot.
Some like strait passes through the rifted rocks,
From which oft issue shrieks, and whistling gusts,
And wailings dismal. Nay, some, as they say,
Deep hollow'd underneath the river's bed,
Which show their narrow op'nings through the fern
And tangling briars, like dank and noisome holes
Wherein foul adders breed. But not far hence
The chiefest mouth of all, 'midst beetling rocks
And groves of blasted oaks, gapes terrible.

Ethw.
So near? but who are they who dwell within?

Boy.
The female high Arch Druid therein holds
With many Druids tending on her will,
(Old, as they say, some hundred years or more)
Her court, where horrid spells bind to her rule
Spirits of earth and air.

Ethw.
Ay, so they tell thee,
But who is he that has held converse with her?

Boy.
Crannock, the bloody prince, did visit her,
And she did show to him the bloody end
Whereto he soon should come; for all she knows
That is, or has been, or shall come to pass.

Ethw.
Yes, in times past such intercourse might be,
But who has seen them now?

Boy.
Thane Ethelbert.

Ethw.
(starting).
What saidst thou, Ethelbert?

Boy.
Yes, truly; oft he goes to visit them
What time the moon rides in her middle course.

Ethw.
Art thou assured of this?

Boy.
A youth who saw him issue from the cave;
'Twas he who told it me.

Ethw.
Mysterious man!
(After a pause.)
Where sleeps the Thane?

Boy.
If walls and doors may hold him,
He sleeps not distant, in the southern tower.

Ethw.
Take thou that lamp, and go before me then.

Boy.
Where?

Ethw.
To the southern tower. Art thou afraid?

Boy.
No, my good lord, but keep you close behind.

[Exeunt; Boy bearing the lamp, and looking often behind to see that Ethw. is near him.

SCENE II.

A small gallery or passage with a door in front, which is opened, and enter Ethwald, and Ethelbert with a lamp in his hand.
Eth.
Then, by the morrow's midnight moon, we meet
At the Arch Sister's cave: till then, farewell!

Ethw.
Farewell! I will be punctual.

[Exit.
Eth.
(looking after him for some time before he speaks).
It ever is the mark'd propensity
Of restless and aspiring minds to look
Into the stretch of dark futurity.
But be it so: it now may turn to good.

[Exit, returning back again into the same chamber from which he came.

SCENE III.

A wide arched cave, rude but grand, seen by a sombre light, a small furnace burning near the front of the stage. Enter Ethwald and Ethelbert, who pause and look round for some time without speaking.
Ethw.
Gloomy, and void, and silent!

Eth.
Hush!

Ethw.
What hearest thou?

Eth.
Their hollow sounding steps. Lo! seest thou not? [Pointing to the further end of the stage, where, from an obscure recess, enter three Mystics robed in white, and ranged on one side of the stage, point to Ethwald: whilst from another obscure recess enter three Mystic Sisters, and ranged on the opposite side point to Ethwald: then from a mid recess enters the Arch Sister robed also in white, but more majestic than the others, and a train of Mystics and Mystic Sisters behind her. She advances half-way up the stage, then stops short, and points also to Ethwald.
(All the Mystics, &c. speaking at once.)

Who art thou?

Arch Sist.
I know thee who thou art; the hand of Mercia.
The hand that lifts itself above the head.
I know thee who thou art.

Ethw.
Then haply ye do know my errand too.

Arch Sist.
I do; but turn thee back upon thy steps,
And tempt thy fate no farther.

Ethw.
From the chaf'd shore turn back the swelling tide!
I came to know my fate, and I will know it.

1st Mystic.
Must we call up from the deep centre's womb
The spirits of the night and their dread lord?

1st Myst. S.
Must we do that which makes the entombed dead
From coffins start?

Ethw.
Raise the whole host of darkness an ye will,
But I must be obey'd.

[The Arch Sister shrieks, and, throwing her mantle over her face, turns to go away.
Ethw.
If there be power in mortal arm to hold you,
Ye stir not hence until I am obey'd.

1st Myst.
And how compellest thou?

Ethw.
With this good sword.

1st Myst.
Swords here are children's wands of no avail:
There, warrior, is thy weapon.

Ethw.
Where, Mystic? say.

1st Myst.
(pointing to the furnace).
Behold within that fire
A bar of burning iron! pluck it forth.

Ethw.
(resolutely).
I will.

[Goes to the furnace, and putting in his hand, pulls out what seems a red hot bar of iron.
Arch Sist.
(throwing off her mantle).
Thou hast subdued me; thou shalt be obey'd.

Ethw.
(casting away the bar).
Away, thou paltry terror!

Arch Sist.
(to Ethw.)
We now begin our rites: be firm, be silent.

[She stretches forth her hand with a commanding air, and the Mystics and Mystic Sisters begin their incantations at the bottom of the stage, moving round in several mazy circles one within another. Fire is at last seen flashing from the midst of the inner circle, and immediately they all begin a hollow muttering sound, which becomes louder and louder, till at length it is accompanied with dismal sounds from without, and distant music, solemn and wild.
Ethw.
(grasping Ethelbert 's hand).
What dismal sounds are these?
'Tis like a wild responsive harmony,
Tun'd to the answ'ring yells of damned souls.
What follows this? Some horrid thing! Thou smilest:
Nay, press thy hand, I pray thee, on my breast;
There wilt thou find no fear,

Eth.
Hush! hear that distant noise.

Ethw.
'Tis thunder in the bowels of the earth,
Heard from afar.

[A subterraneous noise like thunder is heard at a distance, becoming louder as it approaches. Upon hearing this, the Mystics suddenly leave off their rites; the music ceases, and they, opening their circles, range themselves on either side of the stage, leaving the Arch Sister alone in the middle.
Arch Sist.
(holding up her hand).
Mystics, and Mystic Maids, and leagued bands!
The master spirit comes: prepare.
(All repeat after her).
Prepare.

1st Mystic.
Hark! through the darken'd realms below,
Through the fiery regions glow:
Through the massy mountain's core,
Through the mines of living ore;
Through the yawning caverns wide,
Through the solid and the void;
Through the dank and through the dry,
Through th' unseen of mortal eye:
Upon the earthquake's secret course, afar
I hear the sounding of thy car:
Sulphureous vapours load the rising gale;
We know thy coming; mighty master, hail!
(They all repeat.)
Mighty master, hail!

[The stage darkens by degrees, and a thick vapour begins to ascend at the bottom of the stage.
2d Mystic.
Hark, hark! what murmurs fill the dome!
Who are they who with thee come?
Those who, in their upward flight,
Rouse the tempests of the night:
Those who ride in flood and fire;
Those who rock the tumbling spire:
Those who, on the bloody plain,
Shriek with the voices of the slain:
Those who through the darkness glare,
And the sleepless murd'rer scare;
Those who take their surly rest
On the troubled dreamer's breast:
Those who make their nightly den
In the guilty haunts of men:
Through the heavy air I hear
Their hollow trooping onward bear:
The torch's shrinking flame is dim and pale:
I know thy coming; mighty master, hail!
(All repeat again).
Mighty master, hail!

[The stage becomes still darker, and a thicker vapour ascends.
3d Mystic.
Lo! the mystic volumes rise!
Wherein are lapt from mortal eyes
Horrid deeds as yet unthought,
Bloody battles yet unfought:
The sudden fall and deadly wound
Of the tyrant yet uncrown'd;
And his line of many dyes
Who yet within the cradle lies.
Moving forms, whose stilly bed
Long hath been among the dead;
Moving forms, whose living morn
Breaks with the nations yet unborn,
In mystic vision walk the horrid pale:
We own thy presence; mighty master, hail!
(All).
Mighty master, hail!

Enter from the farther end of the stage crowds of terrible spectres, dimly seen through the vapour, which now spreads itself over the whole stage. All the Mystics and Mystic Sisters bow themselves very low, and the Arch Sister, standing alone in the middle, bows to all the different sides of the cave.
Ethw.
(to 1st Mystic).
To every side the mystic
mistress bows,
What meaneth this? mine eye no form perceives:
Where is your mighty chief?

1st Mystic.
Above, around you, and beneath.

Ethw.
Has he no form to vision sensible?

1st Mystic.
In the night's noon, in the winter's
noon, in the lustre's noon:
Of times twice ten within the century's round
Is he before our leagued bands confess'd
In dread appearance:
But in what form or in what circumstance
May not be told; he dies who utters it.

[Ethw. shrinks at this, and seems somewhat appalled. The Arch Sister, after tossing about her arms, and writhing her body in a violent agitation, fixes her eyes, like one waked from a dream, steadfastly upon Ethw.; then going suddenly up to him, grasps him by the hand with energy.
Arch Sist.
Thou who wouldst pierce the deep and awful shade
Of dark futurity, to know the state
Of after greatness waiting on thy will,
For in thy power acceptance or rejection
Is freely put, lift up thine eyes and say,
What seest thou yonder?

[Pointing to a dark arched opening in the roof of the cave, where an illuminated crown and sceptre appear.
Ethw.
(starting).
Ha! e'en the inward vision of my soul
In actual form pourtray'd!
[His eyes brightening wonderfully.
Sayst thou it shall be mine?

Arch Sist.
As thou shalt choose.

Ethw.
I ask of thee no more.
[Stands gazing upon the appearance till it fades away.
So soon extinguish'd? Hath this too a meaning?
It says, perhaps, my greatness shall be short.

Arch Sist.
I speak to thee no further than I may,
Therefore be satisfied.

Ethw.
And I am satisfied. Dread mystic maid,
Receive my thanks.

Arch Sist.
Nay, Ethwald, our commission ends not here,
Stay and behold what follows.

[The stage becomes suddenly dark, and most terrible shrieks, and groans, and dismal lamentations, are heard from the farther end of the cave.
Ethw.
What horrid sounds are these?

Arch Sist.
The varied voice of woe, of Mercia's woe:
Of those who shall, beneath thine iron hand,
The cup of mis'ry drink. There, dost thou hear
The dungeon'd captives' sighs, the shrilly shrieks
Of childless mothers and distracted maids,
Mix'd with the heavy groans of dying men!
The widow's wailings, too, and infant's cries—
[Ethw. stops his ears in horror.
Ay, stop thine ears; it is a horrid sound.

Ethw.
Forefend that e'er again I hear the like!
What didst thou say? O, thou didst foully say!
Do I not know my nature? heav'n and earth
As soon shall change—
(A voice above.)
Swear not!
(A voice beneath.)
Swear not!
(A voice on the same level, but distant.)
Swear not!

Arch Sist.
Now, once again, and our commission ends.
Look yonder, and behold that shadowy form.
[Pointing to an arched recess, across which bursts a strong light, and discovers a crowned phantom, covered with wounds, and representing by its gestures one in agony. Ethw. looks and shrinks back.
What dost thou see?

Ethw.
A miserable man: his breast is pierced
With many wounds, and yet his gestures seem
The agony of a distracted mind,
More than of pain.

Arch. Sist.
But wears he not a crown?

Ethw.
Why does it look so fix'dly on me thus?
What are its woes to me?

Arch Sist.
They are thy own.
Knowst thou no traces of that alter'd form,
Nor seest that crowned phantom is thyself?

Ethw.
(shudders, then after a pause).
I may be doom'd to meet a tyrant's end,
But not to be a tyrant.
Did all the powers of hell attest the doom,
I would belie it. Know I not my nature?
By every dreaded power and hallow'd thing—
(Voice over the stage.)
Swear not!
(Voice under the stage.)
Swear not!
(Distant voice off the stage.)
Swear not!

[Thundering noise is heard under ground. The stage becomes instantly quite dark, and Mystics and Spirits, &c. disappear, Ethw. and Eth. remaining alone.
Eth.
(after a pause).
How art thou?

Ethw.
Is it thy voice? O, let me feel thy grasp!
Mine ears ring strangely, and my head doth feel
As though I were bereaved of my wits.
Are they all gone? Where is thy hand, I pray?
We've had a fearful bout!

Eth.
Thy touch is cold as death: let us ascend
And breathe the upper air.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A forest. Enter Ethwald with a bow in his hand, and a Boy carrying his arrows.
Ethw.
(looking off the stage).
Ha! Alwy, soon return'd! and with him comes
My faithful Ongar.

Enter Alwy and Ongar with bows also, as if in quest of sport, by the opposite side.
Thou comest, Alwy, with a busy face.
(To boy.)
Go, Boy; I shot mine arrow o'er those elms,
Thou'lt find it far beyond.
[Exit boy.
Now, friend, what tidings?
Alwy.
Within the tufted centre of the wood
The friendly chiefs are met, thus, like ourselves
As careless ramblers guised, all to a man
Fix'd in your cause. Their followers too are firm;
For, much disgusted with the monkish face
Their feeble monarch wears, a warlike leader,
Far, far inferior to the noble Ethwald,
May move them as he lists.

Ethw.
That time and circumstances on me call
Imperiously, I am well assured.
Good Ongar, what sayst thou? how thrives thy part
Of this important task!

Ong.
Well as your heart could wish. At the next council,
Held in the royal chamber, my good kinsman
Commands the guard, and will not bar our way.

Ethw.
May I depend on this?

Ong.
You may, my lord.

Ethw.
Thanks to thee, Ongar! this is noble service,
And shall be nobly thank'd. There is, good Alwy,
Another point; hast thou unto the chiefs
Yet touch'd upon it?

Alwy.
Yes, and they all agree 'tis most expedient
That with Elburga's hand, since weaker minds
Are blindly wedded to the royal line,
Your right be strengthen'd.

Ethw.
And this they deem expedient?

Alwy.
You sigh, my lord; she is, indeed, less gentle—

Ethw.
Regard it not, it is a passing thought,
And it will have its sigh, and pass away.
[Turning away for a little space, and then coming forward again.
What means hast thou devised, that for a term
Selred and Ethelbert may be remov'd?
For faithful to the royal line they are,
And will not swerve: their presence here were dang'rous:
We must employ them in some distant strife.

Alwy.
I have devis'd a plan, but for the means
Brave Ongar here stands pledged. Woggarwolfe,
Who once before unweetingly has served us,
Will do the same again.

Ethw.
How so? 'tis said that since his last affray,
With the keen torment of his wounds subdu'd,
On sick bed laid, by the transforming power
Of artful monks, he has become most saintly.

Alwy.
Well, but we trust his saintship ne'ertheless
May still be lur'd to do a sinner's work.
To burn the castle of a hateful heretic
Will make amends for all his bloody deeds:
You catch the plan: nay, Hexulf and his priests
Will be our helpmates here. Smile not; good Ongar
Has pledged his word for this.

Ethw.
And I will trust to it. This will, indeed,
Draw off the Thanes in haste. But who is near?
Skulking behind yon thicket stands a man:
Seest thou?

[Pointing off the stage.
Alwy.
Go to him, Ongar, scan him well,
And if his face betrays a list'ner's guilt—
Thou hast thy dagger there?

Ong.
Yes, trust me well.

Ethw.
Nay, Ongar, be not rash in shedding blood!
Let not one drop be spilt that may be spar'd.
Secure him if he wear a list'ner's face:
We are too strong for stern and ruthless caution.
[Exit Ongar.
I'm glad he is withdrawn a little space,
Ere we proceed to join the leagued chiefs.
Hast thou agreed with Cuthbert? Is he sure?

Alwy.
Sure. 'Tis agreed when next the ethling hunts,
To lead him in the feigned quest of game
From his attendants; there, in ambush laid,
Cuthbert and his adherents seize upon him,
And will conduct him with the ev'ning's close
To Arrick's rugged tower. All is prepar'd.

Ethw.
But hast thou charged him well that this be done
With all becoming care and gentleness,
That nothing may his noble nature gall
More than the hard necessity compels?

Alwy.
Do not mistrust us so! your brow is dark:
At Edward's name your changing countenance
Is ever clouded.
[Ethw. turns from him agitated.
You are disturb'd, my lord.

Ethw.
I am disturb'd.
(Turning round and grasping Alwy by the hand.)
I'll tell thee, Alwy—yes, I am disturb'd—
No gleam of glory through my prospect breaks,
But still his image, 'thwart the brightness cast,
Shades it to night.

Alwy.
It will be always so: but wherefore should it?
Glory is ever bought by those who earn it
With loss of many lives most dear and precious.
So is it destin'd. Let that be to him
Which in the crowded breach or busy field
All meet regardless from a foeman's hand.
Do the still chamber, and the muflled tread,
And th' unseen stroke that doth th' infliction deal,
Alter its nature?

Ethw.
(pushing Alwy away from him vehemently, and putting up both his hands to his head).
Forbear! forbear! I shut mine eyes, mine ears;
All entrance bar that may into my mind
Th' abhorred thing convey. Have I not said,
Thou shalt not dare in word, in look, in gesture,
In slightest indication of a thought,
Hold with my mind such base communication?
By my sword's strength! did I not surely think
From this bold seizure of the sovereign pow'r,
A pow'r for which I must full dearly pay,
So says the destiny that o'er me hangs,
To shield his weakness and restore again
In room of Mercia's crown a nobler sway,
Won by my sword, I would as lief—Northumberland
Invites my arms, and soon will be subdu'd;
Of this full sure, a good amends may be
To noble Edward made.

Alwy
(who during the last part of Ethwald 's speech has been smiling behind his back malignantly).
O yes, full surely:
And wand'ring harpers shall in hall and bower
Sing of the marv'llous deed.

Ethw.
(turning short upon him, and perceiving his smile).
Thou smil'st methinks.
Full well I read the meaning of that look:
'Tis a fiend's smile, and it will prove a false one. [Turning away angrily, whilst Alwy walks to the bottom of the stage.
(Aside, looking suspiciously after him.)

Have I offended him? he is an agent
Most needful to me.
(Aloud, advancing to him.)
Good Alwy, anxious minds will often chide—
(Aside, stopping short.)
He hears me not, or is it but a feint?

Alwy
(looking off the stage).
Your arrow-boy returns.

Ethw.
(aside, nodding to himself).
No, 'tis a free and unoffended voice;
I'm wrong. This is a bird whose fleshed beak
The prey too strongly scents to fly away:
I'll spare my courtesies. (Aloud.)
What sayst thou, Alwy?

Alwy
(pointing).
Your arrow-boy.

Ethw.
I'm glad he is return'd.

Re-enter Boy.
Boy.
Nowhere, my lord, can I the arrow find.

Ethw.
Well, boy, it matters not; let us move on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A narrow gallery in an abbey or cloister, with several doors opening into it. Enter Hexulf and Ongar and two monks.
Hex.
Fear not, brave Ongar, we, upon thy hint,
Will quickly act; for here our eager wishes
Are with the church's good most closely join'd.

1st monk.
This is the time when he should walk abroad.
(Listening.)
I hear him at his door.

Hex.
Leave us, good Ongar.

Ong.
To your good skill I do commit it then;
Having but only you, most rev'rend father,
To take my part against this wizard Thane.

1st monk
(still listening).
Begone, he issues forth.

[Exit Ongar.
[One of the doors opens slowly, and enters Woggarwolfe, wrapped in a cloak, and his head bound.
Hex.
Good morrow, valiant Thane, whose pious gifts
Have won heav'n's grace to renovate thy strength,
And grant thee longer life, how goes thy health?

Wog.
I thank you, rev'rend father, greatly mended.

1st monk.
The prayers of holy men have power to save,
E'en on the very borders of the tomb,
The humbled soul who doth with gifts enrich
The holy church.

2d monk.
Didst thou not feel within thee
A peaceful calm, a cheering confidence,
Soon as thy pious offering was accepted?

Wog.
(hesitating).
Yes, rev'rend fathers,—I have
thought indeed—
Perhaps you meant it so—that since that time
The devil has not scar'd me in my dreams
So oft as he was wont, when sore with wounds
I first was laid upon my bed of pain.

Hex.
Ay, that is much; but noble Woggarwolfe,
Thinkest thou not the church doth merit well
Some stable gift, some fix'd inheritance?
Thou hast those lands that are so nearly join'd
Unto Saint Alban's abbey.

Wog.
(much surprised).
My lands! give up my lands?

1st monk.
What are thy lands
Compar'd to that which they will purchase for thee?

2d monk.
To lay thy coffin'd body in the ground,
Rob'd in the garb of holy men, and bless'd?

1st monk.
To have thy tomb beneath the shading arch
Of sacred roof, where nought profane may enter;
While midnight spirits stand and yell without,
But o'er the sacred threshold dare not trespass.

Wog.
(with a rueful countenance).
What, do you think I shall be dead so soon?

Hex.
Life is uncertain; but how glorious, Thane,
To look beyond this wicked world of strife,
And for thyself a lofty seat provide
With saints and holy men, and angel bands!

Wog.
Nay, father, I am not so highly bent;
Do but secure me from the horrid fangs
Of the terrific fiend: I am not proud,
That will suffice me.

Hex.
Nay, herein thy humility we praise not,
And much I fear, at such a humble pitch,
He who so lately scar'd thee in thy dreams
May reach thee still.

1st monk.
O think of this!

Hex.
Dreadful it is, thou knowst,
To see him in thy dreams; but when awake,
Naked, and all uncloth'd of flesh and blood,
As thou at last must be; how wilt thou bear
To see him yelling o'er thee as his prey;
Bearing aloft his dark and hideous form;
Grinding his horrid jaws and darting on thee
His eyes of vivid fire?
[The monks sign themselves with great marks of fear, and Woggarwolfe looks terrified.
Ah! thinkst thou, Thane,
That many gifts, ay, half of all thou'rt worth,
Would dearly purchase safety from such terrors?

Wog.
(in a quick perturbed voice).
I have the
plunder of two neighb'ring chiefs,
Whom I surprised within their towers and slew;
I'll give you all—if that suffices not,
I'll fall upon a third, ay, though it were
My next of kin, nor spare of all his goods
One fragment for myself. O, holy fathers!
I humbly crave saintly protection of you.

Hex.
Nay, Woggarwolfe, on shrines of holy saints
No gift ere works with efficacious power
By force and violence gain'd; unless, indeed,
It be the spoil of some unsaintly Thane,
Some faithless wizard or foul heretic.
Thou hast a neighbour, impious Ethelbert;
His towers to burn and consecrate his spoils,
O'er all thy sins would cast a sacred robe,
On which nor fiend nor devil durst fix a fang.
But now thou lackest strength for such a work,
And mayst be dead ere thou hast time to do it:
Therefore I counsel thee, give up thy lands.

Wog.
O, no! I'm strong enough: my men are strong.
Give us your rev'rend blessing o'er our heads,
And we'll set out forthwith.

Hex.
Then nothing doubt that on your worthy zeal
Will fall the blessing. Let us onward move.
Where are thy followers?

[Exeunt: Hex. talking busily to Wog., and the monks smiling to one another as they go out.

SCENE VI.

The royal apartment: the King is discovered with Hexulf, the seneschal, and several friends or councillors, seated round a council table.
King
(as if continuing to speak).
It may be so: youth finds no obstacle,
But I am old.
Full many a storm on this grey head has beaten;
And now, on my high station do I stand,
Like the tired watchman in his air-rock'd tower,
Who looketh for the hour of his release.
I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest
With those who war no more. One gleam of light
Did sweetly cheer the ev'ning of my day:
Edward, my son! he was the kindliest prop
That age did ever rest on—he is gone,
What should I fight for now?

Sen.
For thine own honour, for the weal of Mercia,
With weapons in our hands, and strong in men,
Who to the royal standard soon will flock,
If summon'd by thy firm and gen'ral orders.
Shall these men be our masters? Heaven forefend!
Five thousand warriors might disperse the foe,
Even with that devil Ethwald at their head;
And shall we think of granting to those rebels
Their insolent demands?

King.
Good seneschal, if that you think our strength
Permits us still in open field to strive
With hope of good, I am not yet so old
But I can brace these stiffen'd limbs in iron,
And do a soldier's service.
(To 2d coun.)
Thane of Mordath,
Thy visage light'neth not upon these hopes;
What are thy thoughts?

2d coun.
E'en that these hopes will bring us to a state
Reft of all hope.
The rebel chiefs but seek their own enrichment,
Not Ethwald's exaltation, good my lord;
Bribe them, and treat for peace. Lack you the means?
The church, for whose enriching you have rais'd
This storm, can well supply it; and most surely
Will do it cheerfully.

[Turning to Hexulf.
Hex.
No, by the holy mass! that were to bring
The curse of heav'n upon our impious heads.
To spoil the holy church is sacrilege:
And to advise such spoil in any wise
Is sacrilegious and abominable.

1st coun.
I am as faithful to the holy church
As thou art, angry priest. I do defy thee—

Sen.
What, have ye no respect unto the king?
I do command you, peace. Who now intrudes?

Enter a Servant in great terror.
Serv.
The rebel force! the castle is surprised!
They are at hand—they have o'erpower'd the guard.

2d coun.
Pray God thou liest! I think it cannot be.

[They all rise up alarmed.
Serv.
It is as true as I do tread this spot.

Enter a Soldier wounded.
King (to sol.).
Ha! what sayst thou? thou bearest for thy words
A rueful witness.

Sol.
Take arms, and save the king, if it be possible.
The rebel chieftains have the gate surprised,
And gain'd, below, the entrance of this tower.
They struggled for the pass; sharp was the broil;
This speaks for me, that I have borne my part.

[Falls down exhausted.
Hex.
(to King).
Retire, my lord, into the higher chamber.
Your arm can give but small assistance here.
Until this horrid visit be o'erpast,
You may conceal yourself.

King.
No, father, never shall the king of Mercia
Be, from his hiding-place, like a mean man
Pull'd forth. But, noble friends, it seems not wise
That this necessity should reach to you.
These rebels seek my life, and with that life
They will be satisfied. In my defence,
Thus taken as we are, all stand were useless;
Therefore, if now you will obey your king,
His last command, retire and save your lives
For some more useful end. Finding me here,
They will no farther search: retire, my friends.

2d coun.
What, leave our king to face his foes alone!

King.
No, not alone; my friend, the seneschal,
Will stay with me. We have been young together,
And the same storms in our rough day of life
Have beat upon us: be it now God's will,
We will lay down our aged heads together
In the still rest, and bid good night to strife.
Have I said well, my friend?

[Holding out his hand to the seneschal.
Sen.
(kissing his hand with great warmth, and putting one knee to the ground).
O my lov'd master! many a bounteous favour
Has shower'd upon me from your royal hand,
But ne'er before was I so proudly honour'd.
[Rising up with assumed grace.
Retire, young men, for now I must be proud;
Retire, your master will confront the foe
As may become a king.
(All calling out at once.)
No, no! we will not leave him.

[They all range themselves, drawing their swords, round the King, and the old seneschal stands, by pre-eminence, close to his master's side.
2d coun.
Here is a wall through which they first must force
A bloody way, ere on his royal head
One silver hair be scath'd.

Enter Ethwald, Alwy, and the Conspirators.
Alwy.
Now vengeance for injustice and oppression!

2d coun.
On your own heads, then, be it, miscreant chiefs!

[They fight round the King; his party defend him bravely, till many more conspirators enter, and it is overpowered.
Ethw.
(aside, angrily, to Alwy, on still seeing the King, standing in the midst, unhurt, and with great dignity, the seneschal by his side, and no one offering to attack him).
Hast thou forgot? Where are thy chosen men?
Is there no hand to do the needful work?
This is but children's play.
(To some of his party.)
Come, let us search, that in the neighb'ring chamber
No lurking foe escape.

[Exit with some followers.
Alwy
(giving a sign to his followers, and going up insolently to the King).
Oswal, resign thy sword.

Sen.
First take thou mine, thou base, ignoble traitor!

[Giving Alwy a blow with his sword; upon which Alwy and his followers fall upon the King and the seneschal, and surrounding them on every side, kill them, with many wounds, the crowd gathering so close round them, that their fall cannot be seen.
Re-enter Ethwald, and the crowd opening on each side shows the dead bodies of the King and the Seneschal.
Ethw.
(affecting surprise).
What sight is this?
Ah! ye have gone too far. Who did this deed?

Alwy.
My followers, much enraged at slight offence,
Did fall upon him.

Ethw.
All have their end decreed, and this, alas!
Has been his fated hour.
Come, chiefs and valiant friends, why stand we here
Looking on that which cannot be repair'd?
All honour shall be paid unto the dead.
And, were this deed of any single hand
The willing crime, he should have vengeance too
But let us now our task of night fulfil:
Much have we still to do ere morning dawn.

[Exeunt Ethw. and followers, and the scene closes.

SCENE VII.

A royal apartment: Enter Elburga, with her hair scattered upon her shoulders, and with the action of one in violent grief, followed by Dwina, who seems to be soothing her.
Elb.
Cease, cease! thy foolish kindness soothes me not;
My morning is o'ercast; my glory sunk;
Leave me alone to wring my hands and weep.

Dwi.
O no, my princely mistress! grieve not thus!
Over our heads the blackest clouds do pass
And brighter follow them.

Elb.
No, no, my sky is night! I was a princess,
Almost a queen: in gorgeous pomp beheld,
The public gaze was ever turn'd on me;
Proud was the highest Thane or haughtiest dame
To do my bidding, ev'ry count'nance watch'd
Each changeful glance of my commanding eye,
To read its meaning: now my state is chang'd:
Scoffing and insult and degrading pity
Abide the daughter of a murder'd king.
Heaven's vengeance light upon them all! Begone!
I hate the very light for looking on me!
Begone! and soothe me not!

Dwi.
Forgive me, princess; do not thus despair;
King Oswal's daughter many friends will find.

Elb.
Friends! hold thy peace!—Oh it doth rend my heart!
I have been wont to talk of subjects, vassals,
Dependants, servants, slaves, but not of friends.
Where shall I hide my head?

Dwi.
Surely, dear mistress, with Saint Cuthbert's nuns,
Whose convent by your father's gifts is rich,
You will protection find. There quiet rest,
And holy converse of those pious maids,
After a while will pour into your mind
Soft consolation.

[Putting her hands on Elburga 's soothingly.
Elb.
(pushing her away).
Out upon thee, fool!
Go, speak thy comforts
To spirits tame and abject as thyself:
They make me mad; they make me thus to tear
My scatter'd locks and strew them to the winds. [Tearing her hair distractedly.
Enter a Servant.

(To ser.)
What brings thee here?

Ser.
Ethwald, the king, is at the gate, and asks
To be admitted to your presence, princess.

Elb.
(becoming suddenly calm).
What, Ethwald, sayst thou? sayst thou truly so?

Ser.
Yes, truly, princess.

Elb.
Ethwald, that Thane whom thou dost call the king?

Ser.
Yes, he whom all the states and chiefs of Mercia
Do call the king.

Elb.
He enters not. Tell him I am unwell,
And will not be disturb'd.
[Exit ser.
What seeks he here? Fie, poorly fainting soul!
Rouse! rouse thee up! To all the world beside
Subdued and humbled would I rather be
Than in the eyes of this proud man.

Re-enter Servant.
Ser.
No, he will not depart, but bids me say
The entrance he has begg'd he now commands.
I hear his steps behind me.

Enter Ethwald. Elburga turns away from him proudly.
Ethw.
Elburga, turn and look upon a friend.

Elb.
(turning round haughtily, and looking on him with an assumed expression of anger and scornful contempt).
Usurping rebel, who hast slain thy master;
Take thou a look that well beseems thy worth,
And hie thee hence, false traitor!

Ethw.
Yes, I will hie me hence, and with me lead
A fair and beauteous subject to my will;
That will which may not be gainsaid. For now
High heaven, that hath decreed thy father's fall,
Hath also me appointed king of Mercia,
With right as fair as his: which I'll maintain
And by the proudest in this lordly realm
Will be obey'd, even by thy lofty self.

Elb.
Put shackles on my limbs and o'er my head
Let your barr'd dungeons low'r; then mayst thou say,
“Walk not abroad,” and so it needs must be:
But thinkst thou to subdue, bold as thou art,
The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter?
Go, bind the wild winds in thy hollow shield,
And bid them rage no more: they will obey thee.

Ethw.
Yes, proud Elburga, I will shackle thee.
But on the throne of Mercia shalt thou sit,
Not in the dungeon's gloom.
Ay, and albeit the wild winds refuse
To be subjected to my royal will,
The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter
I will subdue.

(Taking her hand.)
Elb.
(throwing him off from her vehemently).
Off with those bloody hands that slew my father!
Thy touch is horrid to me! 'tis a fiend's grasp:
Out from my presence! bloody Thane of Mairnieth!

Ethw.
Ay! frown on me, Elburga; proudly frown:
I knew thy haughty spirit, and I lov'd it,
Even when I saw thee first in gorgeous state;
When, bearing high thy stately form, thou stoodst
Like a proud queen, and on the gazing crowd,
Somewhat offended with a late neglect,
Darted thy looks of anger and disdain.
High Thanes and dames shrank from thine eye, whilst I,
Like one who from the mountain's summit sees,
Beneath him far the harmless lightning play,
With smiling admiration mark'd thee well,
And own'd a kindred soul. Each angry flash
Of thy dark eye was loveliness to me.
But know, proud maid, my spirit outmasters thine,
And heedeth not the anger nor the power
Of living thing.

Elb.
Bold and amazing man!

Ethw.
And bold should be the man who weds Elburga.

Elb.
Away! it cannot be, it shall not be!
My soul doth rise against thee, bloody chief,
And bids thy power defiance.

Ethw.
Then art thou mine in truth, for never yet
Did hostile thing confront me unsubdued;
Defy me and thou'rt conquer'd.

Elb.
Thou most audacious chief! it shall not be.

Ethw.
It shall, it must be, maiden, I have sworn it;
And here repeat it on that beauteous hand
Which to no power but with my life I'll yield
[Grasping her hand firmly, which she struggles to free.
Frown not, Elburga! 'tis in vain to strive;
My spirit outmasters thine.

Elb.
Sayst thou to me thou didst not slay my father?
Sayst thou those hands are guiltless of his death?

Ethw.
Thinkst thou I'll plead, and say I have not slain
A weak old man, whose inoffensive mind,
And strong desire to quit the warring world
For quiet religious rest, could be, in truth,
No hindrance to my greatness? were this fitting
In Mercia's king, and proud Elburga's lord?

Elb.
(turning away).
Elburga's lord? Thou art presumptuous, prince:
Go hence, and brave me not.

Ethw.
I will go hence forthwith; and, by my side,
The fair selected partner of my throne
I'll lead, where the assembled chiefs of Mercia
Wait to receive from me their future queen.

Elb.
Distract me not!

Ethw.
Resistance is distraction.
Who ever yet my fixed purpose cross'd?
Did Ethwald ever yield? Come, queen of Mercia!
This firm grasp shall conduct thee to a throne:
[Taking her hand, which she feebly resists.
Come forth, the frowning, haughty bride of Ethwald.

Elb.
Wonderful man!
If hell or fortune fight for thee I know not,
Nothing withstands thy power.

[Exeunt: Ethw. leading off Elb. in triumph, and Dwina following, with her hands and eyes raised to heaven in astonishment.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

An arched passage from a gateway in the royal castle. The sound of warlike music without. Enter Ethelbert and Selred with their followers, as if just come from a long march: enter, by the opposite side, Alwy, upon which they halt, the foremost of the followers but just appearing under the gateway.
Alwy.
Welcome, most valiant chieftains! Fame reports
That crown'd with full success ye are return'd.

Eth.
Good sooth, we boast but little of our arms;
Though Woggarwolfe, our base ignoble spoiler,
Wounded and sorely shent, we've left behind,
Again in cloister'd walls with ghostly men,
Winding his soul, with many a heavy groan,
Into a saintly frame! God speed the work!
We are but just in time to save our halls.

Sel.
It is a shame that such a ruffian thief
Should thus employ the arms of warlike Thanes.

Alwy.
In truth it is, but now there reigns in Mercia
A warlike king, who better knows to deal
With valiant men. The messenger inform'd you?

Sel.
He did; yet, be it own'd, to call him king
Sounds strangely in our ears. How died king Oswal?

Eth.
(to Sel.)
Patience, my friend! good time will show thee all.
Yet pray inform us, Alwy, ere we part,
Where is young Edward? in these late commotions
What part had he?

Alwy.
Would to the holy saints I could inform you!
Reports there are, incongruous and absurd—
Some say, in hunting from his followers stray'd,
Passing at dusk of eve a high-swoln stream,
Therein he perish'd; others do maintain
That, loathing greatness, he conceals himself
In some lone cave: but as I bear a heart
True to King Ethwald and the public weal,
I know of him no more.

Sel.
Thou liest!

Eth.
(pulling back Sel.)
Peace, art thou mad?

Alwy
(pretending not to hear).
What said brave Selred?

Eth.
A hasty exclamation of no meaning.

Alwy.
I must away, and bear the welcome tidings
Of your arrival to the royal ear.

Eth.
But stop, before thou goest I fain would know
How fared Elburga in the passing storm?
Where has she refuge found?

Alwy.
Within these walls; she is the queen of Mercia.

Eth.
I am indebted to thee.

[Exit Alwy.
Sel.
(staring with surprise upon Ethelbert).
What dost thou think of this? Did we hear truly?
To the usurper of her father's crown,
And, if our fears be true, his murd'rer too!
To him! O most unnatural!

Eth.
Ay, so it is. As one, who ventures forth
After an earthquake's awful visitation,
The country round in strange unwonted guise
Beholds; here swelling heights and herby knolls,
Where smok'd the cottage and the white flocks browz'd,
Sunk into turbid pools; there rifted rocks,
With all their shaggy woods upon their sides,
In the low bosom of the flowery vale
Resting uncouthly—even so does he,
Who looks abroad after the storms of state,
Strange changes see; unnatural and strange.

Sel.
It makes my spirit boil—the gentle Edward!
So gently brave!

Eth.
Yes, there is cause of grief
And indignation too: but Ethwald reigns,
Howe'er he gain'd his height, and he possesses
The qualities that suit his lofty station.
With them I fear he has his passions also,
Hostile to public good: be it our part
To use the influence we still retain
O'er his ambitious mind for Mercia's weal!
This is our duty now.

Sel.
I'll take thy counsel.
(To the soldiers.)
Follow, weary comrades.

[Exeunt Eth. and Sel. and their followers, marching across the stage.

SCENE II.

A royal apartment. Elburga, as queen, discovered sitting on a chair of state, with Dwina, ladies, and officers of state attending.
Elb.
We've waited long: how goes the day?
knowst thou?

(To 1st officer.)
1st off.
As comes the light across this arched roof
From those high windows, it should wear, methinks,
Upon noon-day.

Elb.
And the procession to the royal chapel
Should at this hour begin. The king, perchance,
Is with affairs detain'd: go thou and see.
[Exit 1st officer.
I am impatient now.
[Voice heard without.
What voice is that?

First SONG without.
Hark! the cock crows, and the wind blows,
Away, my love, away!
Quick, don thy weeds and tell thy beads,
For soon it will be day.
1st lady.
'Tis sadly wild.

Dwi.
'Tis sad, but wondrous sweet.
Who may it be? List, list! she sings again.

Second SONG without.
Where layst thou thy careless head?
On the cold heath is my bed,
Where the moor-cock shuts his wing,
And the brown snake weaves his ring.
Safe and fearless will I be,
The coiled adder stings not me.
Elb.
(rising, displeased, from her seat).
Call those who wait without. What may this mean?

Enter an Attendant.
Atten.
Pardon, my royal dame! be not offended!
'Tis a poor maid bereaved of her mind.
Rent are her robes, her scatter'd locks unbound,
Like one who long through rugged ways hath stray'd,
Beat with the surly blast; but never yet,
Though all so sorely shent, did I behold
A fairer maid. She aims at no despite:
She's wild, but gentle.

Dwi.
O hark again!

Third SONG without.
[A pause.
Fourth SONG.
Ah, maiden! bear the biting smart,
Nor thus thy loss deplore;
The Thane's fair daughter has his heart,
He will return no more.
1st lady.
'Tis strangely melancholy.

Dwi.
'Tis like the mournful sounds which oftentimes
The midnight watcher, in his lonely tower,
Hears with the wailing blast most sweetly mingled.

Elb.
(to attendant).
Go thou and lead her hither.

Atten.
I will, great queen.—But here she comes unbidden.

Enter Bertha, with a wild unsettled air, and her hair scattered upon her shoulders. The ladies gather about her with curiosity.
1st lady.
How fair she is!

2d lady.
Her eyes of lovely blue,
Gentle, but restless. Dost thou see that glance?
[To 1st lady.
I fear to look upon her.

Dwi.
Fie, fie upon it! press not near her thus;
She seems offended: I will speak to her.
(To Berth.)
Sweet lady, art thou sad?
[Bertha looks steadfastly at her, then drops her head upon her breast, and makes no answer.
We would be kind to thee.

[Berth. then looks more gently on her, but is still silent.
1st lady.
Dost thou not speak, thou who canst sing so well?

Dwi.
Who taught thee those sweet notes?

Berth.
The night was dark: I met spirits on my way:
They sang me sweet songs, but they were sorrowful.

Dwi.
Ah, woe is me! and dost thou wander then,
In the dark night alone, no one to tend thee?

Berth.
When the moon's dark, I follow the night-bird's cry,
And it doth guide my way.—But he'll return,
So do they tell me, when sweet violets blow,
And summer comes again.

Dwi.
And who is he?

Berth.
List, and the winds will tell thee as they pass:
The stilly air will whisper it. But softly,
Tell it to none again. They must not know
How stern he is, for he was gentle once.

Dwi.
A cruel heart had he who could forsake thee!

Ber.
(putting her hand eagerly on Dwina 's mouth).
Hush, hush! we'll not offend him. He is great,
And must not be offended.

Elb.
(coming near her).
What, sayst thou he is great?
Rent are thy weeds, and thin thy ruffled robe:
Why didst thou leave thy home thus unprotected?

Ber.
(turning hastily upon her).
I saw his banner
streaming in the air,
And I did follow it.

Elb.
His banner in the air! What is thy love?

Berth.
(looking fiercely at her).
They say he is a king.

Elb.
(smiling).
Poor maid! 'tis ever thus with such as she;
They still believe themselves of some high state,
And mimic greatness.

Berth.
Thou art a fair dame and a gay—but go;
Take off thine eyes from me; I love thee not.
[Shrinks from Elburga, walking backwards, and looking frowningly at her; then beckoning to Dwina, she speaks in her ear.
They say a royal dame has won his faith,
Stately and proud. But in a gloomy dream
I heard it first, confused and terrible:
And oftimes, since, the fiend of night repeats it,
As on my pressed breast he sits and groans.
I'll not believe it.

Dwi.
What is thy name, sweet lady?

Berth.
(rubbing her hand across her forehead as if trying to recollect).
I had a name that kind friends call'd me by;
And with a blessing did the holy man
Bestow it on me. But I've wander'd far
Through wood and wilds, and strangely on my head
The numbing winds have beat, and I have lost it.
Be not offended with me—
For, lady, thou art gentle, and I fear thee.

[Bowing submissively to Dwina.
Enter Ethelbert.
Eth.
(to Dwina, after looking at Bertha).
What maid is that so haggard and so wild?

Dwi.
A wand'ring maniac, but so fair and gentle
Thou needs must speak to her.

Eth.
(going up to Bertha).
Fair lady, wilt thou suffer—gracious heaven!
What see I here! the sweet and gentle Bertha!
Ah, has it come to this! Alas, alas!
Sweet maiden, dost thou know me?

Berth.
(after looking earnestly at him).
I know thee well enough. They call thee mad;
Thy wild and raving words oft made the ears
Of holy men to tingle.

Eth.
She somewhat glances at the truth. Alas!
I've seen her gay and blooming as the rose,
And cheerful, too, as song of early lark,
I've seen her prattle on her nurse's lap,
Innocent bud! and now I see her thus.

[Weeps.
Berth.
Ah! dost thou weep? are they unkind to thee?
[Shaking her head.
Yes, yes! from out the herd, like a mark'd deer,
They drive the poor distraught. The storms of heaven
Beat on him: gaping hinds stare at his woe;
And no one stops to bid heav'n speed his way.

Eth.
(flourish of trumpets).
Sweet maid, retire.

Berth.
Nay, nay! I will not go: there be without
Those who will frown upon me.

Eth.
(endeavouring to lead her off).
I pray thee be entreated!

[Dwina takes hold of her also to lead her off, but she breaks from them furiously.
Berth.
Ye shall not force me! Wist ye who I am?
The whirlwind in its strength contends with me,
And I o'ermaster it.

Eth.
Stand round her then, I pray you, gentle ladies!
The king must not behold her.

[The ladies gather round Bertha, and conceal her.
Enter Ethwald, followed by Thanes and Attendants.
Ethw.
(after returning the obeisance of the assembly).
This gay and fair attendance on our person,
And on our queen, most honour'd lords and dames,
We much regard; and could my heart express—
[Bertha, hearing his voice, shrieks out.
What cry is that?

Dwi.
Regard it not: it is a wand'ring maid,
Distracted in her mind, who is in search,
As she conceits it, of some faithless lover.
She sings sweet songs of wildest harmony,
And at the queen's command we led her in.

Ethw.
Seeking her love! distracted in her mind!
Have any of my followers wrong'd her? Speak!
If so it be, by righteous heaven I swear!
The man, whoe'er he be, shall dearly rue it.

[Bertha shrieks again, and, breaking through the crowd, runs up to Ethwald. He starts back, and covers his eyes with one hand, whilst she, catching hold of the other, presses it to her breast.
Berth.
I've found thee now, and let the black fiend growl,
I will not part with thee. I've follow'd thee
Through crag and moor and wild. I've heard thy voice
Sound from the dark hill's side, and follow'd thee.
I've seen thee on the gath'ring twilight clouds,
Ride with the stately spirits of the storm.
But thou lookst sternly on me.
O be not angry! I will kneel to thee;
For thou art glorious now, as I am told,
And must have worship.

(Kneeling, and bowing her head meekly to the ground.)
Ethw.
(turning away).
O God! O God! Where art thou, Ethelbert?
Thou mightst have saved me this.

[Looking round, and seeing that Ethelbert weeps, he also becomes softened, and turns to Bertha with great emotion.
Berth.
They say she's fair and glorious: woe is me!
I am but form'd as simple maidens are.
But scorn me not; I have a powerful spell,
A Druid gave it me, which on mine arm
When once enclasp'd, will make me fair as she;
So thou wilt turn to me.

Ethw.
O Ethelbert! I pray thee pity me!
This sight doth move me, e'en to agony.
Remove her hence; but O deal gently with her!

[Ethelbert endeavours again to lead her off, and the ladies crowd about her. She is then carried out, and is heard to scream as they are carrying her.
Ethw.
(in great disorder).
Come, come away! we do but linger here.

[Elburga, who, since Ethwald 's entering, has remained in the background, but agitated with passions, now advances angrily to him
Elb.
So thou hast known this maid?

Ethw.
Fie! speak not to me now.

Elb.
Away, away!
Thou hast lodg'd softer passions in thy breast
Than I have reckon'd on.

Ethw.
(shaking her off).
Fie! turn thy face aside, and shade thine eyes!
That no soft passion in thy bosom lives,
Is thy opprobrium, woman, and thy shame.

Elb.
There are within my breast such thoughts, I trust,
As suit my lofty state.

Ethw.
(aside to Elb.)
Go, heartless pageant, go,
Lead on thy senseless show, and move me not
To do thee some despite.
(Aloud to the ladies.)
Move on, fair dames.
[To Elb., who seems unwilling to go.
The king commands it.

[Exeunt Elburga and ladies.
1st off.
(to Ethw., who stands with his eyes fixed on the ground).
Please you, my lord, but if you move not also,
The ceremony will, in sooth, appear
As marr'd and cut in twain.

Ethw.
What sayst thou, marshal?

1st off.
Please you, my lord, to move?

Ethw.
Ay, thou sayst well: in the soul's agony
A meaner man might turn aside and weep.

[Exit Ethw. with part of his train, the others ranging themselves in order to follow him. A great confusion and noise is then heard without, and a voice calling out “The king is wounded.” The crowd press back again in disorder, and presently re-enter Ethw. supported.
1st off.
My lord, how is it with you?

Ethw.
I fear but ill, my friend. Where is the man
That gave me this fell stroke?

1st off.
I cannot tell: they have surrounded him.

Enter 2d Officer.
2d off.
He is secured.

Ethw.
Is it a Mercian hand?

2d off.
It is, my lord, but of no high degree.
It is the frantic stroke of a poor groom,
Who did his late lord love; and, for that crime,
Last night, with wife and children weeping round him,
Was by your soldiers turn'd into the cold,
Houseless and bare.

Ethw.
Curse on their ruffian zeal!
Torment him not, but let him die in peace.
Would I might say—. I'm very faint, my friends:
Support me hence, I pray you!

[Exeunt, Ethw. supported.

SCENE III.

A royal apartment: an open door in front, showing an inner chamber, in which is discovered Ethwald lying upon a couch, and surrounded with the Thanes and Officers of his court, Selred and Ethelbert standing on each side of him.
Sel.
(after Ethw. has said something to him in a low voice).
He is too much inclosed and longs for air:
He'll breathe more freely in the outer chamber,
Let us remove him.

[They lift him in his couch, and bring him forward to the front of the stage.
1st off.
How are you now, my lord?

Ethw.
Somewhat exhausted: and albeit, good Thanes,
I greatly am indebted to your love,
For a short space I fain would be alone.

1st off.
Farewell! God send your highness rest! meantime
We'll pray for your recovery.

2d off.
And heaven will hear our prayers.
Omnes.
Amen, amen!

Ethw.
Pray heaven to order all things for the weal
Of my good realm, and I shall be well pleased
To live or die. Adieu!
[Exeunt all but Ethw., Selred, and Ethelbert. After a pause, in which Ethw. seems agitated and uneasy.
My dearest Selred, think it not unkind,
But go thou too. [Exit Selred.
[Raising himself on the couch, and taking both the hands of Ethelbert, which he presses in his, looking up in his face expressively for some time before he speaks.

I am oppress'd. To them, even in this state,
I still must be a king: to you, my friend,
Let me put off all seeming and constraint,
And be a poor weak man. (A pause.)
Thou speakest not,
Thy face is sad and solemn. Well I see
Thou lookst upon me as a dying wretch—
There is no hope.

Eth.
Much will it profit thee
To be prepared as though there were no hope;
For if thou liv'st thou'lt live a better man,
And if thou diest, may heav'n accept it of thee!

Ethw.
O that it would! But, my good Ethelbert,
To be thus seized in my high career,
With all my views of glory op'ning round me—
The Western state e'en now invites mine arms.
And half Northumberland, in little time,
Had been to Mercia join'd.

Eth.
Nay, think not now, I pray thee, of these matters!
They mix uncouthly with the pious thoughts
That do become your state.

Ethw.
I know it well;
But they do press so closely on my heart—
O I did think to be remember'd long!
Like those grand visitations of the earth,
That on its alter'd face for ages leave
The traces of their might. Alas, alas!
I am a powerful, but a passing storm,
That soon shall be forgotten!

Eth.
I do beseech thee think of better things!

Ethw.
Thou seest I weep.—Before thee I may weep.
[Dropping his head upon his breast, and groaning deeply.
Long have I toil'd and stain'd my hands in blood
To gain pre-eminence; and now, alas!
Newly arrived at this towering height,
With all my schemes of glory rip'ning round me,
I close mine eyes in darkness, and am nothing.

Eth.
What, nothing sayst thou?

Ethw.
O no, Ethelbert!
I look beyond this world, and look with dread,
Where all for me is fearful and unknown.
Death I have daily braved in fields of fight,
And, when a boy, oft on the air-hung bough
I've fearless trod, beneath me roaring far
The deep swoln floods, with every erring step
Instant destruction. Had I perish'd then—
Would that I had, since it is come to this!

[Raising up his hands vehemently to heaven.
Eth.
Be not so vehement: this will endanger
The little chance thou still mayst have for life.
The God we fear is merciful.

Ethw.
Ay, He is merciful; but may it reach—
O listen to me!—Oswal I have murder'd,
And Edward, brave and gentle—ay, this bites
With a fell tooth!—I vilely have enthrall'd;
Of all his rights deprived. The loving Bertha:
Too well thou knowst what I have been to her—
Ah! thinkest thou a thousand robed priests
Can pray down mercy on a soul so foul?

Eth.
The inward sighs of humble penitence
Rise to the ear of heav'n, when pealed hymns
Are scatter'd with the sounds of common air;
If I indeed may speak unto a king
Of low humility.

Ethw.
Thy words bite keenly, friend. O king me not!
Grant me but longer life, and thou shalt see
What brave amends I'll make for past offences.
Thou thinkest hardly of me; ne'ertheless,
Rough as my warrior's life has been, good thoughts
Have sometimes harbour'd here.
[Putting his hand on his heart.
If I had lived,
It was my full intent that, in my power,
My people should have found prosperity:
I would have proved to them a gen'rous lord.
If I had lived—Ah! thinkst thou, Ethelbert,
There is indeed no hope?

Eth.
I may not flatter you.

Ethw.
(holding up his clasped hands).
Then heaven
have mercy on a guilty soul!
Good Ethelbert, full well thou knowst that I
No coward am: from power of mortal thing
I never shrank. O might I still contend
With spear and helm, and shield and brandish'd blade!
But I must go where spear and helm and shield
Avail not:
Where the skill'd warrior, cased in iron, stands
Defenceless as the poor uncrusted worm.
Some do conceit that disembodied spirits
Have in them more capacity of woe
Than flesh and blood maintain. I feel appall'd:
Yes, Thane of Sexford, I do say appall'd.
For, ah! thou knowst not in how short a space
The soul of man within him may be changed.

Eth.
I know it all too well. But be more calm;
Thou hast a task to do, and short perhaps
May be the time allow'd thee. True repentance
With reparation of offences past
Is ever yok'd. Declare it as thy will
That Edward do succeed unto his rights:
And for poor Bertha, she shall be my charge;
I'll tend and cheer her in my quiet home.

Ethw.
Thou dost prevent my boon: heaven bless thee for it!
I give thee power to do whate'er thou thinkst
I living should have done. 'Tis all I can,
And gracious heaven accept it at my hands!

Eth.
Amen, my friend! I'll faithfully fulfil
The important trust—Ha! how thy visage changes!
Thy mind's exertion has outrun thy strength.
He faints away. Help! who attends without?

Enter Selred with Attendants.
Sel.
Alas, my brother!

[Assisting Eth. to raise Ethw.'s head.
Eth.
Raise him gently, Selred.
For, if that life within him still remain,
It may revive him.

Sel.
Ah, see how changed he is! Alas, my brother!
Pride of my father's house, is this thy end?

Enter Elburga, Nobles, &c.
Elb.
Let me approach unto my royal lord.
Good Ethelbert, thou long hast known thy king,
Look'd he e'er thus before?

[Looking on Ethw.
Eth.
No, royal dame; and yet 'tis but a faint;
See, he revives again.

Ethw.
(opening his eyes).
Who are about me now?

Eth.
The queen and nobles.

Sel.
And Selred, too, is here, my dearest Ethwald!

Ethw.
(holding out his hand to Sel.)
Ay, noble
brother, thou wert ever kind.
Faintness returns again; stand round, my friends,
And hear my dying words. It is my will
That Ethelbert shall, after my decease,
With the concurrence of the nation's council,
The kingdom settle as may best appear
To his experienced wisdom, and retain
Until that settlement the kingly power.
Faintness returns again; I say no more.
Art thou displeas'd, my Selred?

Sel.
(kneeling and kissing his hand).
No, brother,
let your dying will bereave me
E'en of my father's lands, and with my sword
I will maintain it.

Ethw.
Thou art a gen'rous brother; fare thee well!

Elb.
What, is the queen, indeed, so poor a thing
In Mercia's state that she should be o'erpass'd,
Unhonour'd and unmention'd?

Ethw.
(to Elb., waving his hand faintly).
Be at peace!
Thou shalt have all things that become thy state.
(To attendants.)
Lower my head, I pray you.

1st off.
He faints again.

2d off.
He will not hold it long:
The kingdom will be torn with dire contentions.
And the Northumbrian soon will raise his head.

Ethw.
(raising himself eagerly with great vehemence).
Northumberland! Oh I did purpose soon,
With thrice five thousand of my chosen men,
To have compass'd his proud towers.
Death, death! thou art at hand, and all is ended!

[Groans, and falls back upon the couch.
1st off.
This is a faint from which I fear, brave Thanes,
He will awake no more.

2d off.
Sayst thou? go nearer and observe the face.

1st off.
If that mine eyes did ever death behold,
This is a dead man's visage.

2d off.
Let us retire. My good lord Ethelbert,
You shall not find me backward in your service.

1st off.
Nor me.

Omnes.
Nor any of us.

Eth.
I thank you, Thanes! 'Tis fit you should retire;
But Selred and myself, and, of your number,
Two chosen by yourselves, will watch the body.
[To Dwina, who supports Elburga, and seems soothing her.
Ay, gentle Dwina, soothe your royal mistress,
And lead her hence.
[After looking steadfastly on the body.
Think ye, indeed, that death hath dealt his blow?

1st off.
Ah, yes, my lord! that countenance is death!

[Selred kneels by the body, and hides his head.
Eth.
Then peace be to his spirit!
A brave and daring soul is gone to rest.
Thus powerful death th' ambitious man arrests,
In midst of all his great and towering hopes,
With heart high swoln; as the omnipotent frost
Seizes the rough enchafed northern deep,
And all its mighty billows, heav'd aloft,
Boldly commixing with the clouds of heaven,
Are fix'd to rage no more.

[The curtain drops.

2. PART SECOND.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Ethwald.
• Ethelbert.
• Selred.
• Edward.
• Alwy.
• Hereulf.
• Hexulf.
• Ongar.
• Thanes, soldiers, &c. &c

WOMEN

• Elburga.
• Dwina.
• Ladies, attendants, &c. &c.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A gloomy apartment in an old Saxon castle, with small grated windows very high from the ground. Edward is discovered, sitting by a table, and tracing figures with chalk upon it, which he frequently rubs out again; at last, throwing away the chalk, he fixes his eyes upon the ground, and continues for some time in a melancholy musing posture. Enters to him the Keeper, carrying something in his hand.
Edw.
What brings thee now? it surely cannot be
The time of food: my prison hours are wont
To fly more heavily.

Keep.
It is not food: I bring wherewith, my lord,
To stop a rent in these old walls, that oft
Hath griev'd me, when I've thought of you o' nights;
Through it the cold wind visits you.

Edw.
And let it enter! it shall not be stopp'd.
Who visits me besides the winds of heaven?
Who mourns with me but the sad sighing wind?
Who bringeth to mine ear the mimick'd tones
Of voices once belov'd, and sounds long past,
But the light-wing'd and many voiced wind?
Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek,
As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows,
But the free piteous wind?
I will not have it stopp'd.

Keep.
My lord, the winter now creeps on apace:
Hoar frost this morning on our shelter'd fields
Lay thick, and glanced to the up-risen sun,
Which scarce had power to melt it.

Edw.
Glanced to th' up-risen sun! Ay, such fair morns,
When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on,
Like to a gemmed bride! Your rustics, now,
And early hinds, will set their clouted feet
Through silver webs, so bright and finely wrought
As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on
Their careless way, unheeding.
Alas, how many glorious things there be
To look upon! Wear not the forests, now,
Their latest coat of richly varied dyes?

Keep.
Yes, good my lord, the cold chill year advances;
Therefore, I pray you, let me close that wall.

Edw.
I tell thee no, man; if the north air bite,
Bring me a cloak.—Where is thy dog to-day?

Keep.
Indeed I wonder that he came not with me
As he is wont.

Edw.
Bring him, I pray thee, when thou com'st again.
He wags his tail and looks up to my face
With the assured kindliness of one
Who has not injur'd me. How goes your sport?

Keep.
Nobly, my lord; and much it pleases me
To see your mind again so sooth'd and calm.

Edw.
I thank thee: knowst thou not that man is form'd
For varied states; to top the throne of power,
Or in a toad's hole squat, shut from the light?
He can bear all things; yet, if thou hast grace,
Lead me for once into the open air
To see the woods, and fields, and country round,
In the fair light of heaven.

Keep.
I must not do it; I am sworn to this;
But all indulgence suited to this state
Of close confinement, gladly will I grant.

Edw.
A faithful servant to a wicked lord,
Whoe'er he be, art thou. Is Oswal dead?
Or does some powerful Thane his power usurp?
[A pause.
Thou wilt not answer me.

[A horn heard without.
Keep.
Ha! who is at the gate that sounds so boldly?
I'll mount this tower and see.
[Exit hastily, and Edward takes his seat again as before. Keep. (without, calling down from the tower).
It is a company of armed men,
Bearing a royal ensign.

Edw.
(starting from his seat).
Then let me rise and brace my spirits up!
They bring me death or freedom! Re-enter Keeper from the tower.

(Eagerly to him.)
What thinkst thou of it?

Keep.
I'll to the gate, and meet them instantly.

[Exit crossing over the stage hastily.
Edw.
(alone).
An it be death they'll do it speedily,
And there's the end of all. Ah, liberty!
An it be thou, enlarger of man's self!—
My heart doth strangely beat as though it were.
I hear their steps already: they come quickly:
Ah! how step they who joyful tidings bear!

Keep.
(calling without to Edw. before they enter).
My lord, my lord! you're a free man again!

Edw.
Am I? great God of heaven, how good
Thou art!

Enter two Thanes, conducted by the Keeper.
Edw.
(accosting them).
Brave men, ye come upon a blessed errand,
And let me bless you.

1st Th.
With joy unto ourselves we bring, my lord,
Your full enlargement from the highest power,
That Mercia now obeys.

Edw.
Not from king Oswal?

2d Th.
No, most noble ethling;
From the Lord Regent Ethelbert we come.

Edw.
Mine uncle, then, is dead.

2d Th.
E'en so, my lord.

Edw.
Ah! good and gentle, and to me most kind!
(Weeps, hiding his face.)
Died he peacefully?

1st Th.
He is at peace.

Edw.
Ye are reserv'd with me.
But ye are wise perhaps; time will declare it.
Give me your hands; ye are my loving friends.
And you, good guardian of this castle, too,
You have not been to me a surly keeper.

[Taking the Thanes warmly by the hand, and afterwards the keeper. [A second horn sounds without very loud.
1st Th.
Ha! at our heels another messenger
So quickly sent!

[Exit keep.
2d Th.
What may this mean?

Edw.
Nay, wait not for him here.
Let us go forth from these inclosing walls,
And meet him in the light and open day.

1st Th.
'Tis one, I hope, sent to confirm our errand:
How came he on so quickly?

Edw.
Thou hopest, Thane? Oh! then thou doubtest too.

[Pauses and looks earnestly in their faces.
Enter Ongar, conducted by the keeper.
1st Th.
(to Ongar).
Thine errand?

Ongar.
That thou shalt know, and the authority
Which warrants it. You here are come, grave Thanes,
Upon the word of a scarce-named regent,
To set this pris'ner free; but I am come
With the sign'd will of Ethwald to forbid it;
And here I do retain him.

(Laying hold of Edw.)
1st Th
Loose thy unhallow'd grasp, thou base deceiver!
Nor face us out with a most wicked tale.
We left the king at his extremity,
And long are this he must have breath'd his last.

Ongar.
Art thou in league with death to know so well
When he perforce must come to sick men's beds?
King Ethwald lives, and will live longer too
Than traitors wish for. Look upon these orders;
Knowest thou not his sign? (Showing his warrant.) (Both Thanes, after reading it.)
'Tis wonderful!

Ongar.
Is it so wonderful
A wounded man, fainting with loss of blood
And rack'd with pain, should seem so near his end,
And yet recover?

2d Th.
Ethwald then lives?

Ongar.
Ay, and long live the king!

Edw.
What words are these?
I am as one who in a misty dream,
Listens to things wild and fantastical,
Which no congruity nor kindred bear
To preconceiv'd impressions.
King Ethwald, said ye? and is Ethwald king?

1st Th.
He did succeed your uncle.

Edw.
And by his orders am I here detain'd?

1st Th.
Even so, my lord.

Edw.
It cannot be. (Turning to 2d Th.)
Thou sayst not so, good Thane?

2d Th.
I do believe it.

Edw.
Nay, nay, ye are deceiv'd.
(Turning to Ongar.)
What sayst thou?
Was I by Ethwald's orders here imprison'd?

Ongar.
Yes, yes; who else had power or will to do it?

Edw.
(holding his clasped hands).
Then hope farewell!
My gleam is dark; my rest is in the dust!
O that an enemy had done this wrong!
But Ethwald, thou, who to my heart wert press'd
As dearest brother never was by him
Who shar'd his mother's breast! Thou in whose fame
I gloried—I who spoke not of my own!—
When shouting crowds proclaim'd thy honour'd name,
I ever join'd with an ungrudging heart:
Yea, such true kindred feeling bore I to him,
E'en at his praise I wept. I pray you, sirs!
(Bursting into tears.)
This hath o'ercome me.
Ongar (to Thanes).
Why do you tarry here?
You've seen my warrant.
Depart with me and leave the prisoner.

1st Th.
What, shall we leave him in this piteous state,
Lone and uncomforted?

Ongar.
It must be so, there is no time to lose.
Come, follow me; my men are at the gate.

[As they are all about to depart, Edward, starting furiously forward to the door, flies upon Ongar, and seizes him by the throat.
Edw.
What! leave me here, fiend! Am I not a man,
Created free to breathe the circling air,
And range the boundless earth as thy base self,
Or thy more treach'rous lord? thou tyrant's slave!

[As he struggles with him, Ongar calls loudly, and immediately the apartment is filled with armed men, who separate them.
Ongar
(to his followers).
Remove that madman to the inner chamber.
Keeper, attend your duty.
(To the Thanes.)
Follow me.

[Exeunt Ongar and Thanes, &c.
Keep.
(to Edw., as some remaining armed men are leading him off by the opposite side).
Alas! alas! my lord, to see you thus,
In closer bondage! Pray! good soldiers, pray!
Let him in this apartment still remain:
He'll be secure; I'll pledge my life—

Edw.
No, no!
Let them enchain me in a pitchy gulph!
'Twere better than this den of weariness,
Which my soul loathes. What care I now for ease?

[Exeunt, Edw. led off by the men.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the royal castle. Enter Ethelbert meeting with Selred, who enters at the same time from a door at the bottom of the stage.
Eth.
How didst thou leave the king?

Sel.
Recovering strength with every passing hour.
His spirits too, that were so weak and gloomy,
From frequent fainting and the loss of blood,
Now buoyant rise, and much assist the cure
Which all regard as wonderful.

Eth.
It has deceiv'd us, yet I've heard of such.

Sel.
Thou lookest sadly on it: how is this?
With little cost of thought I could explain
In any man but thee that cloudy brow;
But well I know thou didst not prize the power
With which thou wert invested.

Eth.
Selred, this hasty gloom will prove too short
To work in Ethwald's mind the change we look'd for.
And yet he promis'd well.

Sel.
Ay, and will well perform; mistrust him not.
I must confess, nature has form'd his mind
Too restless and aspiring: and of late.
Having such mighty objects in his grasp,
He has too reckless been of others' rights.
But, now that all is gain'd, mistrust him not:
He'll prove a noble king; a good one too.

Eth.
Thou art his brother.

Sel.
And thou his friend.

Eth.
I stand reprov'd before thee.
A friend, indeed, should gentler thoughts maintain,
And so I will endeavour.

Sel.
Give me thy valiant hand; full well I know
The heart which it pertains to.

Eth.
I hear him, now, within his chamber stir.

Sel.
Thou'lt move him best alone. God speed thy zeal!
I'll stand by thee the while and mark his eye.

[Eth. remains on the front of the stage whilst Ethwald enters behind him from the door at the bottom of the stage, leaning upon an attendant.
Ethw.
(to Sel. as he goes up to Eth.)
How, Ethelbert, our friend, so deep in thought?
(To the attendant.)
Leave me awhile methinks a brother's arm
Will be a kindlier staff.
[Exit attendant, and he leans upon Sel.
How, Ethelbert, my friend!
What vision from the nether world of sprites
Now rises to thine eyes, thus on the ground
So fix'd and sternly bent?

Eth.
Pardon, my lord! my mind should now be turn'd
To cheerful thoughts, seeing you thus restor'd.
How fares it with you?

Ethw.
E'en as with one, on a rude mountain's side,
Who suddenly in seeming gloom enclos'd
Of drizzly night, athwart the wearing mist
Sees the veil'd sun break forth in heav'n's wide arch,
And showing still a lengthen'd day before him.
As with a trav'ller in a gloomy path,
Whose close o'er-shaded end did scare his fancy
With forms of hidden ill; who, wending on
With fearful steps, before his eyes beholds
On the sudden burst a fair and wide expanse
Of open country, rich in promis'd good.
As one o'erwhelmed in the battle's shock,
Who, all oppress'd and number'd with the slain,
Smother'd and lost, with sudden impulse strengthen'd,
Shakes the foul load of dead men. from his back,
And finds himself again standing erect,
Unmaim'd and vigorous. As one who stood—
But it may tire thee with such ample scope
To tell indeed how it doth fare with me.

Eth.
You truly are from a dark gloom restor'd
To cheerful day; and, if the passing shade
Has well impress'd your mind, there lies before you
A prospect fair indeed. Ay, fairer far
Than that the gloom obscured.

Ethw.
How sayst thou?

Eth.
Did not that seeming cloud of death obscure
To your keen forecast eye tumultuous scenes
Of war and strife, and conquest yet to come,
Bought with your people's blood? but now, my Ethwald,
Your chasten'd mind, so rich in good resolves,
Hath stretch'd before it future prospect fair,
Such as a god might please.

Ethw.
How so, good Ethelbert?

Eth.
And dost thou not perceive? O see before thee
Thy native land, freed from the ills of war,
And hard oppressive power, a land of peace!
Where yellow fields unspoil'd, and pastures green,
Mottled with herds and flocks, who crop secure
Their native herbage, nor have ever known
A stranger's stall, smile gladly.
See through its tufted alleys to heav'n's roof
The curling smoke of quiet dwellings rise:
Whose humble masters, with forgotten spear
Hung on the webbed wall, and cheerful face
In harvest fields embrown'd, do gaily talk
Over their ev'ning meal, and bless king Ethwald,
The valiant yet the peaceful, whose wise rule,
Firm and rever'd, has brought them better days,
Than e'er their fathers knew.

Ethw.
A scene, indeed, fair and desirable;
But, ah, how much confin'd! Were it not work
A god befitting, with exerted strength,
By one great effort to enlarge its bounds,
And spread the blessing wide?

Eth.
(starting back from him).
Ha! there it is! that serpent bites thee still!
O spurn it, strangle it! let it rise no more!

Sel.
(laying his hand affectionately on Ethwald 's breast).
My dearest brother, let not such wild thoughts
Again possess your mind!

Ethw.
Go to! go to! (To Sel.)

But, Ethelbert, thou'rt mad.

(Turning angrily to Eth.)
Eth.
Not mad, my royal friend, but something griev'd
To see your restless mind still bent on that,
Which will to you no real glory bring,
And to your hapless people many woes.

Ethw.
Thou greatly errest from my meaning, friend.
As truly as thyself I do regard
My people's weal, and will employ the power
Heav'n trusts me with, for that important end.
But were it not ignoble to confine
In narrow bounds the blessed power of blessing,
Lest, for a little space, the face of war
Should frown upon us? He who will not give
Some portion of his ease, his blood, his wealth,
For others' good, is a poor frozen churl.

Eth.
Well, then again a simple warrior be,
And thine own ease, and blood, and treasure give:
But whilst thou art a king, and wouldst bestow
On people not thine own the blessed gift
Of gentle rule, earn'd by the public force
Of thine own subjects, thou dost give away
That over which thou hast no right. Frown not:
I will assert it, crown'd and royal lord,
Though to your ears full rude the sound may be.

Ethw.
Chaf'd Thane, be more restrain'd. Thou knowest well,
That, as a warlike chieftain, never yet
The meanest of my soldiers grasp'd his spear
To follow me constrain'd; and as a king,
Thinkst thou I'll be less noble?

Sel.
Indeed, good Ethelbert, thou art too warm;
Thou dealest hardly with him.

Eth.
I know, though peace dilates the heart of man
And makes his stores increase, his count'nance smile,
He is by nature form'd, like savage beasts,
To take delight in war.
'Tis a strong passion in his bosom lodg'd,
For ends most wise, curb'd and restrain'd to be;
And they who for their own designs do take
Advantage of his nature, act, in truth,
Like cruel hinds who spirit the poor cock
To rend and tear his fellow.
O thou! whom I so often in my arms,
A bold and gen'rous boy have fondly press'd,
And now do proudly call my sov'reign lord,
Be not a cruel master! O be gentle!
Spare Mercian blood! Goodness and power make
Most meet companions. The great Lord of all,
Before whose awful presence, short while since,
Thou didst expect to stand, almighty is,
Also most merciful:
And the bless'd Being He to earth did send
To teach our soften'd hearts to call him Father,
Most meekly did confine His heavenly power
Unto the task assign'd Him. Think of this.
O! dost thou listen to me?

Ethw.
(moved and softened).
Yes, good Ethelbert.
Be thou more calm: we will consider of it.
We should desire our people's good, and peace
Makes them to flourish. We confess all this;
But circumstance oft takes away the power
Of acting on it. Still our Western neighbours
Are turbulent and bold; and, for the time,
Though somewhat humbled, they again may rise
And force us to the field.

Sel.
No, fear it not! they are inclin'd to peace;
Tidings I've learnt, sent by a trusty messenger,
Who from Caernarvon is with wondrous speed
But just arriv'd: their valiant prince is dead.
A sudden death has snatch'd him in his prime;
And a weak infant, under tutorage
Of three contending chiefs of little weight,
Now rules the state, who, thou mayst well perceive,
Can give thee no disturbance.

Ethw.
(eagerly, with his eyes lightening up, and his whole frame agitated).
A trusty messenger has told thee this?
O send him to me quickly! still fair fortune
Offers her favours freely. Send him quickly!
Ere yet aware of my returning health,
Five thousand men might without risk be led
E'en to their castle walls.

Eth.
What, meanst thou this?
Uprous'd again unto this dev'lish pitch?
Oh, it is horrid!

Ethw.
(in great heat).
Be restrained, Thane.

Eth.
Be thou restrained, king. See how thou art,
Thus feebly tott'ring on those wasted limbs?
And wouldst thou spoil the weak?

(Observing Ethw. who staggers from being agitated beyond his strength.)
Ethw.
(pushing away Selred, who supports him).
I do not want thine aid: I'm well and vig'rous:
My heart beats strongly, and my blood is warm;
Though there are those who spy my weakness out
To shackle me withal. Ho, thou without!
[Enter his attendant, and Ethw., taking hold of him, walks across the stage; then turning about to Sel. and Eth.
Brother, send quickly for your trusty messenger;
And so, good day. Good morning, Thane of Sexford.

(Looking sternly to Ethelbert.)
Eth.
Good morning, Mercia's king.

[Exeunt by opposite sides, frowningly.

SCENE III.

A grand apartment, with a chair of state. Enter Hexulf and Alwy, engaged in close conversation.
Alwy
(continuing to speak).
Distrust it not;
The very honours and high exaltation
Of Ethelbert, that did your zealous ire
So much provoke, are now the very tools
With which we'll work his ruin.

Hex.
But still proceed with caution; gain the queen;
For she, from ev'ry hue of circumstance,
Must be his enemy.

Alwy.
I have done that already,
By counterfeiting Ethwald's signature
Whilst in that still and deathlike state he lay,
To hinder Ethelbert's rash treach'rous haste
From setting Edward free, I have done that
For which, though Ethwald thanks me, I must needs,
On bended knee, for courtly pardon sue.
The queen I have address'd with humble suit
My cause to plead with her great lord, and she
Will her magnificent and high protection
Give to our party, e'en if on her mind
No other motive press'd.

Hex.
I doubt it not, and yet I fear her spirit,
Proud and aspiring, will desire to rule
More than befits our purpose.

Alwy.
Fear it not.
It is the show and worship of high state
That she delights in, more than real power:
She has more joy in stretching forth her hand
And saying, “I command,” than, in good truth,
Seeing her will obey'd.

Enter Queen, with Dwina and Attendants.
Hex.
Saint Alban bless you, high and royal dame!
We are not here, in an intruding spirit,
Before your royal presence.

Queen.
I thank you, good lord bishop, with your friend.
And nothing doubt of your respect and duty.

Alwy.
Thanks, gracious queen! This good and holy man
Thus far supports me in your royal favour,
Which is the only rock that I would cling to,
Willing to give me friendly countenance.

Queen.
You have done well, good Alwy, and have need
Of thanks more than of pardon; nevertheless,
If any trouble light on thee for this,
A royal hand shall be stretch'd forth to save you,
Whom none in Mercia, whosoe'er they be,
Will venture to oppose. I will protect thee,
And have already much inclin'd the king
To favour thee.

Alwy
(kneeling and kissing her hand).
Receive my humble thanks, most honour'd queen.
My conscience tells me I have merited,
Of you and of the king, no stern rebuke;
But that dark cunning Thane has many wiles
To warp men's minds e'en from their proper good.
He has attempted, or report speaks falsely,
To lure King Ethwald to resign his crown.
What may he not attempt! it makes me shrink!
He trusts his treasons to no mortal men:
Fiends meet him in his hall at dead of night,
And are his counsellors.

Queen
(holding up her hands).
Protect us, heaven!

Hex.
Saint Alban will protect you, gracious queen.
Trust me, his love for pious Oswal's daughter
Will guard you in the hour of danger. Hark!
The king approaches.

[Flourish of trumpets.
Queen.
Yes, at this hour he will receive in state
The bold address of those seditious Thanes,
Clam'ring for peace, when fair occasion smiles,
And beckons him to arm and follow her.

Hex.
We know it well; of whom Thane Ethelbert,
In secret is the chief, although young Hereulf
By him is tutor'd in the spokesman's office.

Enter Ethwald, attended by many Thanes and Officers of the Court, &c.
Queen
(presenting Alwy to Ethw.).
My lord, a humble culprit at your feet,
Supported by my favour, craves forgiveness.

[Alwy kneels, and Ethw. raises him graciously.
Ethw.
I grant his suit, supported by the favour
Of that warm sense I wear within my breast Of his well-meaning zeal.
(Looking contemptuously at the Queen, who turns haughtily away.)
But wherefore, Alwy,
Didst thou not boldly come to me at first
And tell thy fault? Might not thy former services
Out-balance well a greater crime than this?

Alwy.
I so, indeed, had done, but a shrewd Thane,
Of mind revengeful, and most penetrating,
Teaches us caution in whate'er regards
His dealings with the state. I fear the man.

Ethw.
And wherefore dost thou fear him?

Alwy
(mysteriously).
He has a cloudy brow, a stubborn gait;
His dark soul is shut up from mortal man,
And deeply broods upon its own conceits
Of right and wrong.

Hex.
He has a soul black with foul atheism
And heresies abominable. Nay,
He has a tongue of such persuasive art,
That all men listen to him.

Queen
(eagerly).
More than men:
Dark spirits meet him at the midnight hour,
And horrid converse hold.

Ethw.
No, more I pray you! Ethelbert I know.

Queen.
Indeed, indeed, my lord, you know him not!

Ethw.
Be silent, wife!
(Turning to Hex. and Al.)
My tried and faithful Alwy,
And pious Hexulf, in my private closet
We further will discourse on things of moment,
At more convenient time.
The leagued Thanes advance. Retire, Elburga:
Thou hast my leave. I gave thee no command
To join thy presence to this stern solemnity.
Soft female grace adorns the festive hall,
And sheds a brighter lustre on high days
Of pageant state; but in an hour like this,
Destin'd for gravest audience, 'tis unmeet.

Queen.
What, is the queen an empty bauble, then,
To gild thy state withal?

Ethw.
The queens of Mercia, first of Mercian dames,
Still fair example give of meek obedience
To their good lords. This is their privilege.
[Seeing that she delays to go.
It is my will. A good day to your highness.

Queen
(aside as she goes off).
Be silent, wife! this Mollo's son doth say
Unto the royal offspring of a king.

[Exit Queen, frowning angrily, and followed by Dwina and attendants. The Thanes, who entered with Ethwald, and during his conversation with Alwy, &c. had retired to the bottom of the stage, now come forward.
Ethw.
Now wait we for those grave and sluggish chiefs,
Who would this kingdom, fam'd for warlike Thanes,
Change into mere provision-land to feed
A dull unwarlike race.

Alwy.
Ay, and our castles,
Whose lofty walls are darken'd with the spoils
Of glorious war, to barns and pinning folds,
Where our brave hands, instead of sword and spear,
The pruning knife and shepherd's staff must grasp.

Hex.
True; sinking you, in such base toils unskill'd,
Beneath the wiser carl. This is their wish,
But heav'n and our good saint will bring to nought
Their wicked machinations.

Enter an Officer of the castle.
Off.
Th' assembled Thanes, my lord, attend without.

Ethw.
Well, let them enter.
Our seat beneath us will not shake, I trust,
[Exit off.
Being so fenced round.

(Taking his seat, and bowing courteously with a smiling countenance to the Chiefs, &c. who range themselves near him.)
Enter several Thanes, with Hereulf at their head, and presently after followed by Ethelbert.
Her.
(stretching out his hand with respectful dignity).
Our king and sire, in true and humble duty
We come before you, earnestly entreating
Your royal ear to our united voice.

Ethw.
Mine ear is ever open'd to the words
Of faithful duty.

Her.
We are all men, who in th' embattled field
Have by your side the front of danger braved,
With greater lack of prudence than of daring;
And have opposed our rough and scarred breasts
To the fell push of war, with liberality
Not yielding to the bravest of your Thanes,
The sons of warlike sires. But we are men,
Who in our cheerful halls have also been
Lords of the daily feast; where, round our boards,
The hoary headed warrior, from the toil
Of arms releas'd, with the cheer'd stranger smiled:
Who in the humble dwellings of our hinds
Have seen a numerous and hardy race,
Eating the bread of labour cheerfully,
Dealt to them with no hard nor churlish hand.
We, therefore, stand with graceful boldness forth
The advocates of those who wish for peace.
Worn with our rude and long continued wars,
Our native land wears now the alter'd face
Of an uncultur'd wild. To her fair fields,
With weeds and thriftless docks now shagged o'er,
The aged grandsire, bent and past his toil,
Who in the sunny nook had plac'd his seat,
And thought to toil no more, leads joyless forth
His widow'd daughters and their orphan train,
The master of a silent, cheerless band.
The half-grown stripling, urged before his time
To manhood's labour, steps, with feeble limbs
And sallow cheek, around his unroof'd cot.
The mother on her last remaining son
With fearful bodings looks. The cheerful sound
Of whistling ploughmen, and the reaper's song,
And the flail's lusty stroke is heard no more.
The youth and manhood of our land are laid
In the cold earth, and shall we think of war?
O, valiant Ethwald! listen to the calls
Of gentle pity, in the brave most graceful,
Nor, for the lust of more extended sway,
Shed the last blood of Mercia. War is honourable
In those who do their native rights maintain;
In those whose swords an iron barrier are
Between the lawless spoiler and the weak:
But is in those who draw th' offensive blade
For added power or gain, sordid and despicable,
As meanest office of the worldly churl.

Ethw.
Chiefs and assembled Thanes, I much commend
The love you bear unto your native land.
Shame to the son nurs'd on her gen'rous breast
Who loves her not! and be assured that I,
Her reared child, her soldier, and her king,
In true and warm affection yield to none
Of all who have upon her turfy lap
Their infant gambols held. To you her weal
Is gain and pleasure; glory 'tis to me.
To you her misery is loss and sorrow;
To me disgrace and shame. Of this be satisfied;
I feel her sacred claims, which these high ensigns
Have fastened on me, and I will fulfil them:
But for the course and manner of performance,
Be that unto the royal wisdom left,
Strengthen'd by those appointed by the state
To aid and counsel it. Ye have our leave,
With all respect and favour to retire.

Her.
We will retire, King Ethwald, as becomes
Free, independent Thanes, who do of right
Approach or quit at will the royal presence,
And lacking no permission.

Alwy.
What, all so valiant in this princely hall,
Ye who would shrink from the fair field of war,
Where soldiers should be bold?

Her.
(laying his hand on his sword).
Thou liest, mean boastful hireling of thy lord,
And shalt be punish'd for it.

1st Th.
(of Ethwald 's side).
And dar'st thou threaten, mouth of bold sedition?
We will maintain his words.

[Draws his sword, and all the Thanes on the King's side do the same. Hereulf and the Thanes of his side also draw their swords.
1st Th.
(of Hereulf 's side).
Come on, base dealers in your country's blood.

1st Th.
(of Ethwald 's side).
Have at ye, rebel cowards!

Ethw.
(rising from his seat, and standing between the two parties in a commanding posture).
I do command you: peace and silence, chiefs!
He who with word or threat'ning gesture dares
The presence of his king again to outrage,
I put without the covert of the law,
And on the instant punish.

[They all put up their swords, and Ethwald, after looking round him for some moments with commanding sternness, walks off majestically, followed by his Thanes.
Eth.
(casting up his eyes to heaven as he turns to follow Hereulf and his party).
Ah, Mercia,
Mercia! on red fields of carnage
Bleed thy remaining sons, and carrion birds
Tear the cold limbs that should have turn'd thy soil.

[Exeunt the two different parties by opposite sides.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A small cavern, in which is discovered a wizard, sitting by a fire of embers, baking his scanty meal of parched corn, and counting out some money from a bag; a book and other things belonging to his art are strewed near him on the ground.
Wiz.
(alone).
Thanks to the restless soul of Mollo's son!
Well thrives my trade. Here, the last hoarded coin
Of the spare widow, trembling for the fate
Of her remaining son, and the gay jewel
Of fearful maid, who steals by fall of eve,
With muffled face, to learn her warrior's doom,
Lie in strange fellowship; so doth misfortune
Make strange acquaintance meet. Enter a Scout.

Brother, thou com'st in haste; what news, I pray?

Scout.
Put up thy book, and bag, and wizard's wand:
This is no time for witchery and wiles.
Thy cave, I trow, will soon be fill'd with those,
Who are by present ills too roughly shent
To look through vision'd spells on those to come.

Wiz.
What thou wouldst tell me, tell in plainer words.

Scout.
Well, plainly then, Ethwald, who thought full surely
The British, in their weak-divided state,
To the first onset of his arms would yield
Their ill-defended towers, has found them strengthen'd
With aid from Wessex. and unwillingly
Led back with cautions skill the Mercian troops;
Meaning to tempt the foe, as it is thought,
To follow him into our open plains,
Where they must needs with least advantage fight.

Wiz.
Who told thee this?

Scout.
Mine eyes have seen them. Scarcely three miles off,
The armies, at this moment, are engaged
In bloody battle. On my way I met
A crowd of helpless women, from their homes
Who fly with terror, each upon her back
Bearing some helpless babe or valued piece
Of household goods snatch'd up in haste. I hear
Their crowding steps e'en now within your cave:
They follow close behind.

Enter a crowd of women, young and old, some leading children and carrying infants on their backs or in their arms, others carrying bundles and pieces of household stuff.
Wiz.
Who are ye, wretched women,
Who, all so pale and haggard, bear along
Those hapless infants, and those seeming wrecks,
From desolation saved? What do you want?

1st wom.
Nought but the friendly shelter of your cave,
For now or house, or home, or blazing hearth,
Good wizard. we have none.

Wiz.
And are the armies then so near your dwellings?

1st wom.
Ay, round them, in them the loud battle clangs.
Within our very walls fierce spearmen push,
And weapon'd warriors cross their clashing blades.

2d wom.
Ah, woe is me! our warm and cheerful hearths,
And rushed floors, whereon our children play'd,
Are now the bloody lair of dying men.

Old wom.
Ah, woe is me! those yellow thatched roofs,
Which I have seen these sixty years and ten,
Smoking so sweetly 'midst our tufted thorns,
And the turf'd graves wherein our fathers sleep!

Young wom.
Ah, woe is me! my little helpless babes!
Now must some mossy rock or shading tree
Be your cold home, and the wild haws your food.
No cheerful blazing fire and seething pot
Shall now, returning from his daily toil,
Your father cheer! if that, if that indeed
Ye have a father still.

[Bursting into tears.
3d wom.
Alack, alack! of all my goodly stuff
I've saved but only this! my winter's webs,
And all the stores that I so dearly saved!
I thought to have them to my dying day!

Enter a young man leading in an idiot.
Young wom.
(running up to him).
Ah, my dear Swithick! art thou safe indeed?
Why didst thou leave me?

Young man.
To save our idiot brother, seest thou here?
I could not leave him in that pitiless broil.

Young wom.
Well hast thou done! poor helpless Balderkin!
We've fed thee long, unweeting of our care,
And in our little dwelling still thou'st held
The warmest nook; and wheresoe'er we be,
So shalt thou still, albeit thou knowst it not.

Enter man carrying an old man on his back.
Young man.
And see here, too, our neighbour Edwin comes,
Bearing his bed-rid father on his back.
Come in, good man. How dost thou, aged neighbour?
Cheer up again! thou shalt be shelter'd still;
The wizard has receiv'd us.

Wiz.
True, good folks;
I wish my means were better for your sakes.
But we are crowded here; that winding passage
Leads us into an inner cave full wide,
Where we may take our room and freely breathe;
Come, let us enter there.

[Exeunt, all following the wizard into the inner cave.

SCENE II.

A field of battle strewed with slain, and some people seen upon the background searching amongst the dead bodies. Enter Hereulf and Ethelbert.
Her.
(stopping short, and holding up his hands).
Good mercy! see at what a bloody price
Ethwald this doubtful victory has purchased,
That, in the lofty height to which he climbs,
Will be a little step of small advantage.

Eth.
(not attending to him, and after gazing for some time on the field).
So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun,
Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on
With all the vigour, and capacity,
And comeliness of strong and youthful men.
Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane,
With grizzled pates, from mates, whose wither'd hands
For some good thirty years had smooth'd your couch:
Alas! and ye whose fair and early growth
Did give you the similitude of men
Ere your fond mothers ceas'd to tend you still,
As nurslings of their care, ye lie together!
Alas! alas! and many now there be,
Smiling and crowing on their mother's breast,
Twining, with all their little infant ways,
Around her hopeful heart, who shall like these,
Be laid i' the dust.

Her.
Ay, so it needs must be, since Mollo's son
Thinks Mercia all too strait for his proud sway.
But here come those who search among the dead
For their lost friends; retire, and let us mark them.

[They withdraw to one side.
Enter two Ceorls, meeting a third, who enters by the opposite side.
1st Ceorl.
(to 3d).
Thou hast been o'er the field?

3d Ceorl.
I have, good friend.

2d Ceorl.
Thou hast seen a rueful sight.

3d Ceorl.
Yes, I have seen that which no other sight
Can from my fancy wear. Oh! there be some
Whose writhed features, fix'd in all the strength
Of grappling agony, do stare upon you,
With their dead eyes half open'd.—
And there be some, struck through with bristling darts,
Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up;
Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand.
Nay; some I've seen among those bloody heaps,
Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men,
Who in convulsive motion yet retain
Some shreds of life more horrible than death;
I've heard their groans, oh, oh!

(A voice from the ground.)
Baldwick!

3d Ceorl.
What voice is that? it comes from some one near.

1st Ceorl.
See, yon stretch'd body moves its bloody hand:
It must be he.

(Voice again.)
Baldwick!

3d Ceorl
(going up to the body from whence the voice came).
Who art thou, wretched man? I know thee not.

Voice.
Ah, but thou dost! I have sat by thy fire,
And heard thy merry tales. and shared thy meal.

3d Ceorl.
Good holy saints! and art thou Athelbald?
Woe! woe is me to see thee in such case!
What shall I do for thee?

Voice.
If thou hast any love or mercy in thee,
Turn me on my face that I may die;
For lying thus, seest thou this flooded gash?
The glutting blood so bolsters up my life
I cannot die.

3d Ceorl.
I will, good Athelbald. Alack the day!
That I should do for thee so sad a service!

[Turns the soldier on his face.
Voice.
I thank thee, friend, farewell!

[Dies.
3d Ceorl.
Farewell! farewell! a merry soul thou wert,
And sweet thy ploughman's whistle in our fields.

2d Ceorl
(starting with horror).
Good heaven forefend! it moves!

1st Ceorl.
What dost thou see?

2d Ceorl.
Look on that bloody corse, so smear'd and mangled,
That it has lost all form of what it was;
It moves! it moves! there is life in it still.

1st Ceorl.
Methought it spoke, but faint and low the sound.

3d Ceorl.
Ha! didst thou hear a voice? we'll go to it.
Who art thou? Oh! who art thou?
[To a fallen warrior, who makes signs to him to pull something from his breast.
Yes, from thy breast; I understand the sign.
[Pulling out a band or 'kerchief from his breast.
It is some maiden's pledge.

Fallen warrior
(making signs).
Upon mine arm,
I pray thee, on mine arm.

3d Ceorl.
I'll do it, but thy wounds are past all binding.

Warrior.
She who will search for me doth know this sign.

3d Ceorl.
Alack, alack: he thinks of some sad maid!
A rueful sight she'll see! He moves again:
Heaven grant him peace! I'd give a goodly sum
To see thee dead, poor wretch!

Enter a woman, wailing and wringing her hands.
2d Ceorl.
Ha! who comes wailing here?

3d Ceorl.
Some wretched mother who has lost her son:
I met her searching midst the farther dead,
And heard her piteous moan.

Mother.
I rear'd him like a little playful kid,
And ever by my side, where'er I went,
He blithely trotted. And full soon, I ween,
His little arms did strain their growing strength
To bear my burden. Ay, and long before
He had unto a stripling's height attain'd,
He ever would my widow's cause maintain
With all the steady boldness of a man.
I was no widow then.

2d Ceorl.
Be comforted, good mother.

Mother.
What sayst thou to me? Knowst thou where he lies?
If thou hast kindness in thee, tell me truly;
For dead or living still he is mine all,
And let me have him.

3d Ceorl
(aside to 2d).
Lead her away, good friend; I know her now.
Her boy is lying with the farther dead,
Like a fell'd sapling: lead her from the field.

[Exeunt mother and 2d Ceorl.
1st Ceorl.
But who comes now, with such distracted gait,
Tossing her snowy arms unto the wind,
And gazing wildly o'er each mangled corse?

Enter a young woman, searching distractedly amongst the dead.
Young wom.
No, no! thou art not here! thou art not here!
Yet, if thou be like these, I shall not know thee.
Oh! if they have so gash'd thee o'er with wounds,
And marr'd thy comely form! I'll not believe it.
Until these very eyes have seen thee dead,
These very hands have press'd on thy cold heart,
I'll not believe it.

3d Ceorl.
Ah, gentle maiden! many a maiden's love,
And many a goodly man lies on this field.

Young wom.
I know, too true it is, but none like him.
Liest thou, indeed, amongst those grisly heaps?
O thou! who ever wert of all most fair!
If heav'n hath suffer'd this, amen, amen!
Whilst I have strength to crawl upon the earth,
I'll search thee out, and be where'er thou art,
Thy mated love, e'en with the grisly dead.

[Searching again amongst the dead, she perceives the band round the arm of the fallen warrior, and uttering a loud shriek, falls senseless upon the ground. The Ceorls run to her assistance, with Eth. and Her. who come forward from the place they had withdrawn to: Her. clenches his hand, and mutters curses upon Mollo 's son, as he crosses the stage. The scene closes.

SCENE III.

A castle not far from the field of battle. Enter Ethwald and Alwy, talking as they enter.
Ethw.
(calling angrily to some one off the stage).
And see they do not linger on the road,
With laggard steps; I will brook no delay.

(To Alwy.) Why, even my very messengers, of late Slothful and sleepy-footed have become: They too must cross my will. [Throws himself upon a seat and sits for some time silent and gloomy.
Alwy.
Your highness seems disturb'd.
What though your arms, amidst those British hills,
Have not, as they were wont, victorious prov'd,
And home retreating, even on your own soil,
You've fought a doubtful battle: luckless turns
Will often cross the lot of greatest kings;
Let it not so o'ercome your noble spirit.

Ethw.
Thinkest thou it o'ercomes me?
[Rising up proudly.
Thou judgest poorly. I am form'd to yield
To no opposed pressure, nor my purpose
With crossing chance or circumstance to change.
I in my march, to this attained height
Have moved still with an advancing step,
Direct and onward;
But now the mountain's side more rugged grows,
And he who would the cloudy summit gain,
Must oft into its cragged rents descend
The higher but to mount.

Alwy.
Or rather say, my lord, that having gain'd
Its cloudy summit, there you must contend
With the rude tempests that do beat upon it.

Ethw.
(smiling contemptuously).
Is this thy fancy?
Are thy thoughts of Ethwald
So poorly limited, that thou dost think
He has already gain'd his grandeur's height?
Know that the lofty point which oft appears,
To him who stands beneath, the mountain's top,
Is to the daring climber who hath reach'd it
Only a breathing place, from whence he sees
Its real summit, bright and heav'n-illum'd,
Towering majestic, grand, above him far,
As is the lofty spot on which he stands
To the dull plain below.
The British once subdued, Northumberland,
Thou seest well, could not withstand our arms.
It too must fall; and with such added strength,
What might not be achiev'd? Ay, by this arm!
All that the mind suggests, even England's crown,
United and entire. Thou gazest on me.
I know full well the state is much exhausted
Of men and means; and those curs'd Mercian women
To cross my purposes, with hag-like spite,
Do nought but females bear. But I will onward.
Still conscious of its lofty destination,
My spirit swells, and will not be subdued.

Alwy.
I, chidden, bow, and yield with admiration
Unto the noble grandeur of your thoughts.
But lowering clouds arise; events are adverse;
Subdue your secret enemies at home,
And reign securely o'er the ample realm
You have so bravely won.

Ethw.
What! have I through the iron fields of war
Proudly before th' admiring gaze of men,
Unto this point with giant steps held on,
Now to become a dwarf? Have I this crown
In bloody battles won, mocking at death,
To wear it now as those to whom it comes
By dull and leaden-paced inheritance;
As the dead shepherd's scrip and knotted crook
Go to his milk-fed son? Like those dull images,
On whose calm, tamed brows, the faint impression
Of far preceding heroes faintly rests,
As the weak colours of a fading rainbow
On a spent cloud!
I'd rather in the centre of the earth
Inclosed be, to dig my upward way
To the far distant light, than stay me thus,
And, looking round upon my bounded state,
Say, this is all. No; lower as it may,
I'll to the bold aspirings of my mind
Still steady prove, whilst that around my standard
Harness doth clatter, or a falchion gleam.

Alwy.
What boot the bold aspirings of the great,
When secret foes beneath his footsteps work
Their treach'rous mine?

Ethw.
Ay, thou before hast hinted of such foes.

Alwy.
Fear for your safety, king, may make me err:
But these combined chiefs, it is full plain,
Under the mask of zeal for public good,
Do court with many wiles your people's hearts;
Breathing into their ears the praise of peace,
Yea, and of peaceful kings. The thralled Edward,
Whose prison-tower stands distant from this castle
But scarce a league—

Ethw.
(starting).
Is it so near us?

Alwy.
It is, my lord.
Nor is he so forgotten in the land,
But that he still serves their dark purpose well.
An easy gentle prince—so brave, yet peaceful—
With such impressions clogg'd your soldiers fight,
And therefore 'tis that with a feeble foe
Ethwald fights doubtful battles.

Ethw.
Thou art convinced of this?

Alwy.
Most perfectly.

Ethw.
I too have had such thoughts, and have repress'd them.

Alwy.
Did not those base petitioners for peace
Withhold their gather'd forces, till beset
On ev'ry side they saw your little army,
Already much diminish'd? then came they,
Like heaven-commission'd saviours, to your aid,
And drew unto themselves the praise of all.
This plainly speaks, your glory with disgrace
They fain would dash, to set their idol up;
For well they think, beneath the gentle Edward
To lord it proudly, and his gen'rous nature
Has won their love and pity. Ethelbert
Now that such fair occasion offers to them,
The prisoner's escape may well effect:
He lacks not means.

Ethw.
(after a thoughtful pause).
Didst thou not say, that castle's foggy air,
And walls with dampness coated, to young blood
Are hostile and creative of disease?
In close confinement he has been full long;
Is there no change upon him?

Alwy.
Some hardy natures will resist all change.

[A long pause, in which Ethwald seems thoughtful and disturbed.
Ethw.
(abruptly).
Once in the roving fantasies of night,
Methought I slew him.

Alwy.
Dreams, as some think, oft show us things to come.

[Another long pause, in which Ethwald seems greatly disturbed, and stands fixed to one spot, till catching Alwy 's eye fastened steadfastly upon his, he turns from him abruptly, and walks to the bottom of the stage with hasty strides. Going afterwards to the door, he turns suddenly round to Alwy just as he is about to go out.
Ethw.
What Thane was he, who, in a cavern'd vault,
His next of kin so long imprison'd kept,
Whilst on his lands he liv'd?

Alwy.
Yes, Ruthal's Thane he was; but dearly he
The dark contrivance rued; fortune at last
The weary thrall reliev'd, and ruin'd him.

Ethw.
(agitated).
Go where thy duty calls thee; I will in:
My head feels strangely; I have need of rest

[Exit.
Alwy
(looking after him with a malicious satisfaction).
Ay, dark perturbed thoughts will be thy rest.
I see the busy workings of thy mind.
The gentle Edward has not long to mourn
His earthly thraldom. I have done my task,
And soon shall be secure; for while he lives,
And Ethelbert, who hates my artful rise,
I live in jeopardy.

[Exit.

SCENE IV

A small dark passage. Enter Ethwald with a lamp in his hand: enter at the same time, by the opposite side, a domestic officer; they both start back on seeing one another.
Ethw.
Who art thou?

Off.
Baldwin, my lord. But mercy on my sight,
Your face is strangely alter'd. At this hour
Awake, and wandering thus!—Have you seen aught?

Ethw.
No, nothing. Knowst thou which is Alwy's chamber?
I would not wake my grooms.

Off.
It is that farther door; I'll lead you to it.

[Pointing off the stage.
Ethw.
No, friend, I'll go myself. Good rest to
thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A small dark chamber, with a low couch near the front of the stage, on which Alwy is discovered asleep. Enter Ethwald with a haggard countenance, bearing a lamp.
Ethw.
He sleeps—I hear him breathe—he soundly sleeps,
Seems not this circumstance to check my purpose,
And bid me still to pause?
(Setting down the lamp.)
But wherefore pause?
This deed must be, or, like a scared thief
Who starts and trembles o'er his grasped store
At ev'ry breezy whisper of the night,
I now must wear this crown, which I have bought
With brave men's blood, in fields of battle shed.
Ah! would that all it cost had there been shed!
This deed must be; for, like a haggard ghost
His image haunts me wheresoe'er I move,
And will not let me rest.
His love hath been to me my bosom's sting;
His gen'rous trust hath gnaw'd me like a worm.
Oh! would a swelt'ring snake had wreath'd my neck
When first his arms embraced me!
He is by fortune made my bane, my curse,
And, were he gentle as the breast of love,
I needs must crush him.
Prison'd or free, where'er he breathes, lives one
Whom Ethwald fears. Alas! this thing must be,
From th' imaged form of which I still have shrunk,
And started back as from my fancy's fiend.
The dark and silent cope of night is o'er us,
When vision'd horrors, through perturbed sleep,
Harden to deeds of blood the dreamer's breast;
When from the nether world fell demons rise
To guide with lurid flames the murd'rer's way.
I'll wake him now; should morning dawn upon me,
My soul again might from its purpose swerve.
(In a loud energetic voice.)
Alwy, awake! sleepest thou? sleepest thou, Alwy?
(Alwy wakes.)
Nay, rouse thyself, and be thou fully waking.
What I would say must have thy mind's full bent;
Must not be spoken to a drowsy ear.

Alwy
(rising quickly).
I fully am awake; I hear, I see,
As in the noon of day.

Ethw.
Nay, but thou dost not.
Thy garish eye looks wildly on the light,
Like a strange vistor.

Alwy.
So do the eyes of one pent in the dark,
When sudden light breaks on them, though he slept not.
But why, my lord, at this untimely hour,
Are you awake, and come to seek me here?

Ethw.
Alwy, I cannot sleep: my mind is toss'd
With many warring thoughts. I am push'd on
To do the very act from which my soul
Has still held back: fate doth compel me to it.

Alwy.
Being your fate, who may its power resist?

Ethw.
E'en call it so, for it, in truth, must be.
Knowst thou one who would do a ruthless deed,
And do it pitifully?

Alwy.
He who will do it surest, does it best!
And he who surely strikes, strikes quickly too,
And therefore pitifully strikes. I know
A brawny ruffian, whose firm clenched gripe
No struggles can unlock; whose lifted dagger,
True to its aim, gives not a second stroke!

Ethw.
(covering his face hastily).
Oh! must it needs be so?
(Catching Alwy eagerly by the arm.)
But hark thee well!
I will have no foul butchery done upon him.

Alwy.
It shall be done, e'en to the smallest tittle,
As you yourself shall order.

Ethw.
Nay, nay! do thou contrive the fashion of it,
I've done enough.

Alwy.
But, good my lord! cast it not from you thus:
There must be warrant and authority
For such a deed, and strong protection too.

Ethw.
Well, well, thou hast it all: thou hast my word.

Alwy.
Ay, but the murder'd corse must be inspected,
That no deceit be fear'd, nor after doubts;
Nor bold impostors rising in the North,
Protected by your treach'rous Thanes, and plum'd,
To scare you afterwards with Edward's name.

Ethw.
Have not thine eyes on bloody death oft look'd?
Do it thyself.

Alwy.
If you, my lord, will put this trust in me,
Swear that when after-rumours shall arise,
As like there may, your faith will be unshaken.

Ethw.
Yes; I will truly trust thee—
(Vehemently, after a short pause.)
No, I will not!
I'll trust to no man's vision but mine own.
Is the moon dark to-night?

Alwy.
It is, an please you.

Ethw.
And will be so to-morrow?

Alwy.
Yes, my lord.

Ethw.
When all is still in sleep—I hear a noise.

Alwy.
Regard it not, it is the whisp'ring winds
Along those pillar'd walls.

Ethw.
It is a strange sound, though. Come to my chamber,
I will not here remain: come to my chamber,
And do not leave me till the morning break.
I am a wretched man!

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A gloomy vaulted apartment in an old castle, with no windows to it, and a feeble light burning in one corner. Enter Edward from a dark recess near the bottom of the stage, with slow pensive steps, frequently stopping as he advances, and remaining for some time in a thoughtful posture.
Edw.
Doth the bright sun from the high arch of heaven
In all his beauteous robes of flecker'd clouds,
And ruddy vapours, and deep glowing flames,
And softly varied shades, look gloriously?
Do the green woods dance to the wind; the lakes
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light?
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke
On the soft morning air?
Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound
In antic happiness, and mazy birds
Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands?
Ay, all this is; all this men do behold;
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault,
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear
The crowing of the cock so near my walls,
And sadly think how small a space divides me
From all this fair creation.
From the wide spreading bounds of beauteous nature,
I am alone shut out; I am forgotten.
Peace, peace! He who regards the poorest worm
Still cares for me, albeit He shends me sorely.
This hath its end. Perhaps, small as these walls,
A bound unseen divides my dreary state
From a more beauteous world; that world of souls,
Fear'd and desir'd by all: a veil unseen
Which soon shall be withdrawn.
[Casts up his eyes to heaven, and turning, walks silently to the bottom of the stage, then advancing again to the front.
The air feels chill; methinks it should be night.
I'll lay me down: perchance kind sleep will come,
And open to my view an inward world
Of garish fantasies, from which nor walls,
Nor bars, nor tyrant's power, can shut me out.

[He wraps himself in a cloak and lies down. Enter a ruffian, stealing up softly to him as supposing him asleep. Edward, hearing him, uncovers his face, and then starts up immediately.
Edw.
What art thou?
Or man or sprite? Thou lookest wondrous stern,
What dost thou want? Com'st thou to murder me?

Ruff.
Yes, I am come to do mine office on thee;
Thy life is wretched, and my stroke is sure.

Edw.
Thou sayest true; yet, wretched as it is,
It is my life, and I will grapple for it.

Ruff.
Full vainly wilt thou strive, for thinkest thou
We enter walls like these with changeling hearts,
To leave our work undone?

Edw.
We, sayest thou?
There are more of you then?

Ruff.
Ay, ay, there are enow to make it sure;
But, if thou wilt be quiet, I'll do't myself.
Mine arm is strong; I'll give no second stroke;
And all escape is hopeless.

Edw.
What, thinkest thou I'll calmly stretch my neck
Until thou butch'rest me?
No, by good heaven! I'll grapple with thee still,
And die with my blood hot!

[Putting himself in a posture of defence.
Ruff.
Well, since thou'lt have it so, thou soon shalt see
If that my mates be lovelier than myself.

[Exit.
Edw.
O that I still in some dark cell could rest,
And wait the death of nature!
[Looking wildly round upon the roof and walls of the vault.
Nor stone, nor club, nor beam to serve my need!
Out from the walls, ye flints, and fill my grasp!
Nought! nought! Is there not yet within this nook
Some bar or harden'd brand that I may clutch?

[Exit hastily into the dark recess, and is followed immediately by two ruffians, who enter by the opposite side, and cross the stage after him.

SCENE II.

An apartment adjoining to the former, with a door leading to it at the bottom of the stage. Enter Alwy with a stern anxious face, and listens at the door; then enter, by the opposite side, Ethwald with a very haggard countenance.
Ethw.
Dost thou hear aught?

Alwy.
No, nothing.

Ethw.
But thou dost:
Is it not done?

Alwy.
I hope it is, my lord.

Ethw.
Thou doubtest, then.—It is long past the hour
That should have lapp'd it. Hark! I hear a noise.

[A noise heard within of people struggling.
Alwy.
They are dealing with him now. They struggle hard.

Ethw.
(turning away with horror, and putting his hands upon his ears).
Ha! are we then so near it? This is horrid!
[After a pause.
Is it not done yet? Dost thou hear them still?

Alwy.
I hear them still: they struggle harder now.

[The noise within heard more distinctly.
Ethw.
By hell's dark host, thy fiends are weak of arm,
And cannot do their task! He will break forth,
With all the bloody work half done upon him!
[Running furiously to the door, and then shuddering, and turning away from it.
No, no, I cannot go! do thou go in,
And give thy strength. Let him be still'd i' the instant.

[A noise heard within of one falling.
Alwy.
There's no need now: did you not hear him fall?
[A groan heard within.
And that groan too? List, list! The deed is done.

[They both retire from the door, and Ethw. leaning his back against the wall, looks steadfastly towards it in silent expectation, whilst it is seen to open slowly a little way, then shut, then open again, without any one appearing.
Ethw.
What may this mean? This pause is horrible!
Will they or enter quickly or forbear?

Enter 1st ruffian, with his hands and clothes bloody, and all his hair and dress in disorder, like one who has been struggling hard. Enter soon after him 2d ruffian in a similar plight.
Alwy
(eagerly).
Ye've done it: is he dead?

1st ruff.
He is still'd now; but with such horrid strength
He grappled with us! we have had fell work.

Alwy.
Then let us see the body.

1st ruff.
Yes, enter if it please ye.

Alwy.
Be pleased, my lord.

(To Ethw.)
Ethw.
Pray thee be satisfied: I cannot go.

Alwy
(to the ruffians).
Bring ye the body hither.

[Exeunt ruffians.
[A silent pause.—Re-enter ruffians bearing the body, and laying it down before Ethw.
Ethw.
(first shrinking from it with horror, then commanding himself, and looking upon it for some time steadfastly).
Yes, changed indeed! and yet I know it well.
Ah! changed indeed! Much he must needs have suffer'd
In his lone prison-house. Thou bruised flower!
And hast thou struggled all so bravely too
For thy most wretched life? Base, bloody work!
Remove it from my sight.

[Turning hastily from it.
Alwy.
What farther orders would you give these men?

Ethw.
Away! speak to me not! thou'st made me curs'd!
Would all the realm of Mercia I had lost,
Ere it had come to this!
Once in the battle's heat I sav'd his life.
And he did bless me for it.

[Beating his forehead distractedly.
Alwy.
Nay, good my lord, be not so keenly moved.
Where shall we lay the body?

Ethw.
Thou and those fiends do with it as ye will:
It is a damned work!

[Exit hastily.
Alwy
(to 1st ruf.)
Come thou with me.
(To 2d ruf.)
We will return anon;
Meanwhile remain thou here and watch the corpse.

[Exeunt Alwy and 1st ruf.
2d ruf.
(alone).
Watch it! I would not watch it here alone
For all my ruffian's hire.

[Throws a coarse cloth over the body, and exit hastily.

SCENE III.

A Saxon hall in the former castle. Enter Elb. and Dwina, talking earnestly as they enter.
Elb.
But didst thou truly question ev'ry groom,
And the stern keeper of that postern gate?

Dwi.
I have, but no one knew that he is absent.
'Twas dark night when the king went forth, and Alwy
Alone was with him. This is all I know.

Elb
Thus secretly, at night! Sexford's castle
Is not far distant.—That distracted maid—
If this be so, by the true royal blood
That fills my veins, I'll be reveng'd! What meanst thou?

[Seeing Dwina shake her head piteously.
Dwi.
Alas! you need not fear; far distant stand
The towers of Ethelbert; and that poor maid
With the quiet dead has found at last her rest.

Elb.
And is't not well? Why dost thou shake thy head,
As though thou toldst sad news?—Yet what avails it?
I ne'ertheless must be a humble mate,
With scarcely e'en the semblance of a queen,
And bow my head whilst Mollo's son doth say,
“Be silent, wife.”—Shall I endure all this?
O Edward! gentle ething! thou who once
Didst bear the title of my future lord,
Wouldst thou have used me thus? I'll not endure it.

Dwi.
Yet be more patient.

Elb.
Be patient, sayst thou? Go to, for I hate thee,
When thou so calmly talkst. Though seemingly,
I oft before his keen commanding eye
Submissive am, thinkst thou I am subdued?
No, by my royal race! I'll not endure it:
I will unto the bishop with my wrongs;
Rever'd and holy men shall do me right:
And here he comes unsent for; this my hope
Calls a good omen.

Enter Hexulf.
Hex.
Thou hast it, royal daughter. Art thou well?
Thou seemst disorder'd.

Elb.
Yes, rev'rend father, I am sorely gall'd
Beneath a heavy and ignoble yoke;
My crowned head is in subjection bow'd,
Like meanest household dame; and thinkest thou
That it becomes the daughter of a king,
The chief descendant of your royal race,
To bear all this, and say that she is well?

Hex.
My daughter, your great lord indeed is form'd
Of soul more stern than was the gentle Edward,
On whom your maiden fancy first was taught
To dwell with sanguine hope.

Elb.
O holy Hexulf! thou hast nam'd a name
Which to my conscience gives such secret pangs:
Oh! I have done such wrong to that sweet youth,
My heart bleeds at the cruel thought. I would—
Yea, there is nothing that I would not do
In reparation of the wrong I've done him.
Speak, my good father, if thou aught canst say:
Edward, 'tis said, has many powerful friends
In secret still devoted to his cause,
And not far distant stands his dreary tower.
O speak to me!—Thou turnst away thy head
Disturb'd and frowningly: hast thou no counsel
For a soul-smitten and distracted woman?

[Laying her clasped hands earnestly on his shoulder, as he turns from her much displeased.
Hex.
Daughter, forbear! you are indeed distracted.
Ethwald, by right of holy bands your lord,
Is in his seat too firmly fix'd; and Edward
Is only by some restless Thanes desired,
Under the influence of that dark wizard,
That heretic who still ensnares the young.
Be wise then, I beseech you, and in peace
Live in the meek subjection of a wife.

Elb.
(stepping back from him with haughty contempt).
And so, meek, holy man, this is your counsel,
Breath'd from the gentle spirit of your state.
I've seen the chafings of your saintly ire
Restrain'd with less concern for sober duty,
When aught pertaining to your priestly rights
Was therein touch'd.

Dwi.
Hush! Ethelbert approaches with his friends:
They come, methinks, at an unwonted hour.

Hex.
That artful heretic regards not times;
His spells still show to him the hour best suiting
His wicked purposes.

Dwi.
Heaven save us all! methinks at his approach
The air grows chill around us, and a hue
Of strange unnatural paleness spreads o'er all.

Elb.
(to Dwi.)
Peace, fool! thy fancy still o'ertops
thy wit.

Enter Selred, Ethelbert, and Hereulf.
Eth.
In your high presence, gracious dame, we are
Thus early visitors, upon our way
To crave admittance to the royal chamber.
Is the king stirring yet? Forgive my boldness.

Elb.
Good Ethelbert, thou dost me no offence;
And you, Lord Selred, and brave Hereulf too,
I bid good morrow to you all. The king
Is not within his chamber: unattended
Of all but Alwy, at the close of night
He did go forth, and is not yet return'd.

Sel.
This much amazes me: the moon was dark,
And cold and rudely blew the northern blast.

Dwi.
(listening).
Hark! footsteps sound along the secret passage:
Look to yon door, for something moves the bolt.
The king alone that sacred entry treads.

Enter Ethwald from a small secret door, followed by Alwy, and starts back upon seeing Ethelbert, &c.
Ethw.
(recovering from his confusion).
A good and early morrow to you all:
I little thought—you are astir betimes.

Eth.
The same to you, my lord, with loving duty.

Sel.
And you too, royal brother, you are moving
At an unwonted hour. But you are pale!
A ghastly hollow look is in your eyes!
What sudden stratagem of nightly war
Has call'd you forth at such untimely season?
The night was dark and cold, the north wind blew,
And if that I can read that alter'd brow,
You come not back unscath'd.

Ethw.
(confused).
No, I am well.—The blast has beat against me,
And tossing boughs my tangled pathway cross'd:
In sooth I've held contention with the night.

Sel.
Yea, in good sooth, thou lookest too like one
Who has contention held with damned sprites.
Hast thou not cross'd that glen where, as 'tis said,
The restless ghost of a dead murd'rer stalks?
Thou shudd'rest and art pale! O, thou hast seen it:
Thou hast indeed the haggard face of one
Who has seen fearful things.

Ethw.
Thou'rt wild and fanciful: I have seen nothing:
I am forespent and faint; rest will restore me.
Much good be to you all!

(Going.)
Eth.
(preventing him).
Nay, on your royal patience, gracious king.
We must a moment's trespass make, to plead
For one, upon whose brave but gentle soul
The night of thraldom hangs.—

Ethw.
(shrinking back).
I know—I know thy meaning—speak it not.
It cannot be—there was a time—'tis past.

Sel.
O say not so; the time for blessed mercy
Is ever present. For the gentle Edward,
We'll pledge our lives, and give such hostages
As shall secure your peace.

Eth.
Turn not away;
We plead for one whose meek and gen'rous soul
Most unaspiring is, and full of truth;
For one who lov'd you, Ethwald; one by nature
Form'd for the placid love of all his kind;
One who did ever in your growing fame
Take most unenvious joy. Such is our thrall:
Yea, and the boon that we do crave for him
Is but the free use of his cramped limbs,
And leave to breathe, beneath the cope of heaven.
The wholesome air; to see the cheering sun;
To be again reckon'd with living men.

[Kneeling and clasping his knees.
Ethw.
Let go, dark Thane; thou rackst me with thy words;
They are vain sounds:—the wind has wail'd as thou dost,
And pled as sadly too. But that must be
What needs must be. Reckon'd with living men!
Would that indeed—O would that this could be!
The term of all is fix'd.—Good night to you—
I—I should say good morning, but this light
Glares strangely on mine eyes.

[Breaking from Eth.
Sel.
(following him).
My dearest brother, by a brother's love!

Ethw.
(putting him away with great agitation).
My heart no kindred holds with human thing.

[Exit quickly, in great perturbation, followed by Alwy.
Sel. and Hereulf
(looking expressively at each other, and then at Ethelbert).
Good Ethelbert, what ails thee?

Her.
Thy fix'd look has a dreadful meaning in it.

Eth.
Let us begone.

Sel.
No, do not yield it so. I still will plead
The gentle Edward's cause: his frowns I fear not.

Eth.
Come, come; there is no cause; Edward is free.

Sel.
How so? thou speakst it with a woeful voice.

Eth.
Is not the disembodied spirit free?

Sel.
Ha! thinkst thou that?—No, no; it cannot be.

Her.
(stamping on the ground, and grasping his sword).
I'll glut my sword with the foul murd'rer's blood,
If such foul deed hath been.

Eth.
Hush, hush, intemp'rate boy! Let us begone.

[Exeunt Eth., Sel., and Her.
Elb.
(to Dwi.)
Heardst thou how they conceive it?

Dwi.
Ay, mercy! and it is a fearful thought!
It glanc'd e'en o'er my mind before they spoke.

Elb.
Thou'rt silent, rev'rend father; are thy thoughts
Of such dark hue?

(With solemn earnestness to Hex.)
Hex.
Heaven's will be done in all things! erring man
Bows silently. Good health attend your greatness.

Elb.
Nay, go not yet, good Hexulf: in my closet
I much desire some converse with thee. Thou,
Belike, hast misconceiv'd what I have utter'd
In unadvised passion, thinking surely
It bore some meaning 'gainst my lord the king.

Hex.
No, gracious daughter, I indeed receiv'd it
As words of passion. You are mov'd, I see:
But let not this dismay you: if the king
Has done the deed suspicion fastens on him,
We o'er his mind shall hold the surer sway.
A restless penitent will docile prove
To priestly counsel: this will be our gain.
But in your closet we'll discourse of this.
Heaven's will be done in all things!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The King's chamber. Enter Ethwald with a thoughtful miserable look, and stands silently muttering to himself, when Alwy enters in haste, followed by an Officer.
Alwy.
Pardon, my lord; we bring you pressing tidings.

Ethw.
(angrily).
Shall I ne'er rest in peace in mine own chamber?
Ha! would that peace were there!—You bring me tidings;
And from what quarter come they?

Alwy.
From Utherbald, who holds your western fortress.

Ethw.
He doth not yield, I hope, unto the foe.
It is my strongest hold, and may defy
The strength of Wessex and of Britain join'd.

Off.
True, king, but famine all things will subdue.

Ethw.
He has surrender'd, then: by heaven and hell
I'll have his head for this!

Alwy.
No, royal Ethwald,
It is not yet so bad; but this brave man,
Commission'd by himself, will tell you all.

Ethw.
Speak, warrior: then he holds the fortress still?

Off.
He does, my lord, but much he lives in fear,
He shall not hold it long, unless your highness
Will give your warrant to release the prisoners;
Those ill designing Mercians whom your wisdom
Under his guard has placed.
He bade me say the step is dangerous;
But, if it is not done, those idle mouths,
Consuming much, will starve him and his men
Into compliance with the foe's demand.
What is your sov'reign will? for on the instant
I must return.

Ethw.
Tell him this is no time for foolish hazard.
Let them be put to death.

Off.
(shrinking back).
Must I return with this?
All put to death?

Ethw.
Yes, I have said: didst thou not hear my words?

Off.
I heard, in truth, but mine ears strangely rung.
Good saints there are, my lord, within our walls,
Close pris'ners kept, of war-bred men alone.
Of whom, I trow, there scarcely is a man
Who has not some fair stripling by his side
Sharing the father's bonds, threescore and ten;
And must they all—

Ethw.
I understand thee, fool.
Let them all die! have I not said it? Go:
Linger not here, but bear thy message quickly. [Exit officer sorrowfully.
(Angrily to Alwy.)

What! thou lookest on me too, as if, forsooth,
Thou wert amaz'd at this. Perceiv'st thou not
How hardly I'm beset to keep the power
I have so dearly bought? Shall this impede me?
Let infants shrink! I have seen blood enough;
And what have I to do with mercy now?
[Stalking gloomily away, then returning.
Selred and Ethelbert, and fiery Hereulf,
Are to their castles sullenly retired,
With many other warlike Thanes. The storm
Is gath'ring round me, but we'll brave it nobly.

Alwy.
The discontented chiefs, as I'm inform'd
By faithful spies, are in the halls of Hereulf
Assembled, brooding o'er their secret treason.

Ethw.
Are they? Then let us send a chosen band,
And seize them unprepared. A nightly march
Will bring them near his castle. Let us then
Immediate orders give; the time is precious.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An apartment in the royal castle or chief residence of Ethwald. Dwina and several of the ladies serving the Queen are discovered at work; some spinning, some winding coloured yarns for the loom, and some embroidering after a rude fashion.
Dwi.
(looking over the 1st lady's work).
How speeds thy work? The queen is now impatient;
Thou must be diligent.

1st lady.
Nine weary months have I, thou knowest well,
O'er this spread garment bent, and yet thou seest
The half is scarcely done. I lack assistance.

Dwi.
And so thou dost, but yet in the wide realm
None can be found but such as lack the skill
For such assistance. All those mingled colours,
And mazy circles, and strange carved spots,
Look, in good sooth, as though the stuff were strew'd
With rich and curious things: though much I fear
To tell you what would prove no easy task.

2d lady.
There lives a dame in Kent, I have been told,
Come from some foreign land, if that indeed
She be no cunning fiend in woman's garb,
Who, with her needle, can most cunningly
The true and perfect semblance of real flowers,
With stalk and leaves, as fairly fashion out
As if upon a summer bank they grew.

1st lady.
Ay, ay! no doubt! thou hearst strange tales, I ween.
Didst thou not tell us how, in foreign lands
Full far from this, the nice and lazy dames
Do set foul worms to spin their silken yarn?
Ha, ha!

[They all laugh.
2d lady
(angrily).
I did not say so.

1st lady.
Nay, nay, but thou didst!

(Laughing.)
2d lady.
Thou didst mistake me wilfully, in spite,
Malicious as thou art!

Dwi.
I pray you wrangle not! when ladies work,
They should tell pleasant tales or sweetly sing,
Not quarrel rudely, thus, like villains' wives.
Sing me, I pray you now, the song I love.
You know it well: let all your voices join.

Omnes.
We will, good Dwina.

Dwi.
(to 3d lady, who sits sad and pensive).
What is the matter, Ella? thy sweet voice
Was wont to join the song.

Ella.
Ah, woe is me! within these castle walls,
Under this very tower in which we are,
There be those, Dwina, who no sounds do hear
But the chill winds that o'er their dungeons howl;
Or the still tinkling of the water-drops
Falling from their dank roofs, in dull succession,
Like the death watch at sick men's beds. Alas!
While you sing cheerly thus, I think of them.

Dwi.
Ay, many a diff'rent lot of joy and grief
Within a little compass may be found.
Under one roof the woeful and the gay
Do oft abide; on the same pillow rest.
And yet, if I may rightly judge, the king
Has but small joy above his wretched thralls.
Last night I listened to his restless steps,
As oft he paced his chamber to and fro,
Right o'er my head, and I did hear him utter
Such heavy groans!

1st lady
(with all the others gathering about Dwina curiously).
Didst thou? And utter'd he no other sound?
I've heard it whisper'd, at the dead of night
He sees strange things.

All
(speaking together).
O tell us, Dwina! tell us!

Dwi.
Out on you all! you hear such foolish tales!
He is himself the ghost that walks the night,
And cannot rest.

Ella.
Belike he is devising in his mind
How he shall punish those poor prisoners,
Who were in Hereulf's tower surpris'd so lately,
And now are in these hollow vaults confin'd.

1st lady.
No marvel that it should disturb him much,
When his own brother is among the guilty.
There will be bloody doings soon, I trow!

Dwi.
Into the hands of good and pious Hexulf
The rebels will be put, so to be punish'd
As he in holy zeal shall see it meet.

Ella.
Then they will dearly suffer.

Dwi.
That holy man no tortures will devise.

Ella.
Yes, so perchance, no tortures of the flesh;
But there be those that do upon the soul
The rack and pincer's work.
Is he not grandson to that vengeful chief,
Who, with the death-axe lifted o'er his head,
Kept his imprison'd foe a live-long night,
Nor, till the second cock had crow'd the morn,
Dealt him the clemency of death? Full well
He is his child I know!

Dwi.
What aileth thee? art thou bewitched also?
Lamentest thou that cursed heretics
Are put in good men's power? The sharpest punishment
O'er-reaches not their crime.

Ella.
O Dwina, Dwina! thou hast watch'd by me
When on a sick-bed laid, and held my head,
And kindly wept to see my wasted cheek,
And lov'st thou cruelty? It cannot be!

Dwi.
No, foolish maiden! mercy to such fiends
Were cruelty.

Ella.
Such fiends! Alas! do not they look like men?
Do they not to their needful brethren do
The kindly deeds of men? Yea, Ethelbert
Within his halls a houseless Thane maintain'd,
Whose substance had been spent in base attempts
To work his ruin.

Dwi.
The blackest fiends of all most saintly forms
Oft wear. Go, go! thou strangely art deluded,
I tremble for thee! get thee hence and pray,
If that the wicked pity of thy heart
May be forgiven thee.

Enter a Lady eagerly.
Lady.
Come, damsels, come! along the gallery,
In slow procession holy Hexulf walks,
With saintly Woggarwolfe, a fierce chief once,
But now a cowled priest of marv'llous grace.
They bear some holy relies to the queen;
Which, near the royal couch with blessings laid,
Will to the king his wonted rest restore.
Come, meet them on their way and gain a blessing.

Dwi.
We will all gladly go.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A royal apartment, lighted only by the moon through the high arched windows. Enter Ethwald, as if just risen from bed, loose and disordered, but bearing a drawn sword in his hand.
Ethw.
Still must this heavy closeness thus oppress me?
Will no fresh stream of air breathe on my brow,
And ruffle for a while this stilly gloom?
O night, when good men rest, and infants sleep;
Thou art to me no season of repose,
But a fear'd time of waking more intense,
Of life more keen, of misery more palpable!
My rest must be when the broad sun doth glare;
When armour rings and men walk to and fro;
Like a tir'd hound stretch'd in the busy hall,
I needs must lie; night will not cradle me.
[Looking up anxiously to the windows.
What, looks the moon still through that lofty arch?
Will't ne'er be morn?—If that again in strength
I led mine army on the bold career
So surely shapen in my fancy's eye,
I might again have joy; but in these towers,
Around, beneath me, hateful dungeons yawn,
In every one of which some being lives
To curse me. Ethelbert and Selred too,
My father's son and my youth's oracle,
Ye too are found with those, who raise to heav'n
The prisoner's prayer against my hated head.
I am a lofty tree of growth too great
For its thin soil, from whose wide rooted fangs
The very rocks and earth that foster'd it
Sever and fall away.—I stand alone!
I stand alone! I thought, alas! to spread
My wide protecting boughs o'er my youth's friends;
But they, like pois'nous brushwood at my root,
Have chok'd my stately growth e'en more than all.
[Musing for some time gloomily.
How marr'd and stinted hath my greatness been!
What am I now of that which long ere now
I hop'd to be? O! it doth make me mad
To think of this! By hell it shall not be!
I would cut off this arm and cast it from me
For vultures' meat, if it did let or hinder
Its nobler fellow.
Yes, they shall die! I to my fortune's height
Will rear my lofty head, and stand alone,
Fearless of storm of tempest.
[Turns round his head upon hearing a noise, and seeing Elburga enter at the bottom of the stage, with a lamp in her hand, like one risen from bed, he starts back and gazes wildly upon her.
What form is that? What art thou? Speak! speak quickly!
If thou indeed be aught of living kind.

Elb.
Why didst thou start? Dost thou not know me?

Ethw.
No;
Thy shadow seem'd to me a crested youth.

Elb.
And with that trusty weapon in thy grasp,
Which thou, of late, e'en on thy nightly couch
Hast sheathless kept, fearest thou living man?

Ethw.
It was not living man I fear'd.

Elb.
What then?
Last night when open burst your chamber door
With the rude blast, which it is wont to do,
You gaz'd upon it with such fearful looks
Of fix'd expectancy, as one, in truth,
Looks for the ent'ring of some dreadful thing.
Have you seen aught?

Ethw.
Get to thy couch. Thinkst thou I will be question'd?

Elb.
(putting her hand upon his shoulder soothingly).
Nay, be not thus uncourtly! thou shalt tell me.

Ethw.
(shaking her off impatiently).
Be not a fool! get thee to sleep, I say!
What dost thou here?

Elb.
That which, in truth, degrades my royal, birth,
And therefore should be chid; servilely soothing
The fretful moods of one, who, new to greatness,
Feels its unwieldy robe sit on his shoulders
Constrain'd and gallingly.

Ethw.
(going up to her sternly and grasping her by the wrist).
Thou paltry trapping of my regal state,
Which with its other baubles I have snatch'd,
Dar'st thou to front me thus? Thy foolish pride,
Like the mock loftiness of mimic greatness,
Makes us contemned in the public eye,
And my tight rule more hateful. Get thee hence;
And be with hooded nuns a gorgeous saint,
For know thou lackest meekness for a queen.

[Elb. seems much alarmed, but at the same time walks from him with great assumed haughtiness, and exit.
Ethw.
(alone).
This woman racks me to the very pitch!
Where I should look for gentle tenderness,
There find I heartless pride. Ah! there was one
Who would have sooth'd my troubles: there was one
Who would have cheer'd—But wherefore think I now?
(Pausing thoughtfully.)
Elburga has of late been to my will
More pliant, oft assuming gentle looks:
What may this mean? under this alter'd guise
What treach'ry lurks?
(Pausing again for some time.)
And yet it should not be:
Her greatness must upon my fortune hang,
And this she knows full well. I've chid her roughly.
Some have, from habit and united interest,
Amidst the wreck of other human ties,
The steadfast duty of a wife retain'd,
E'en where no early love or soft endearments
The bands have knit. Yes; I have been too rough.
[Calling to her off the stage.
Elburga! dost thou hear me, gentle wife?
And thou com'st at my bidding: this is kindly.

Enter Elburga, humbled.
Elb.
You have been stern, my lord. You think belike,
That I have urged you in my zeal too far
To give those rebel chieftains up to Hexulf,
As best agreeing with the former ties
That bound you to those base ungrateful men,
And with the nature of their chiefest crime,
Foul heresy; but, if in this I err,
Zeal for your safety urged me to offend.

Ethw.
I've been too stern with thee, but heed it not.
And in that matter thou hast urged so strongly,
But that I much mistrust his cruelty,
I would resign those miserable men
To Hexulf's vengeful arm; for much he does
Public opinion guide, and e'en to us,
If now provok'd, might prove a dang'rous foe.

Elb.
Mistrust him not; he will by oath engage
To use no torture.

Ethw.
And yet methinks, Selred might still be saved.
A holy man might well devise the means
To save a brother.

Elb.
He will think of it.
Much do the soldiers the bold courage prize,
And simple plainness of his honest mind;
To slay him might be dangerous.

Ethw.
Ha! is it so? They've praised him much of late?

Elb.
Yes, he has grown into their favour greatly.

Ethw.
The changeful fools! I do remember well
They shouted loudly o'er his paltry gift,
Because so simply giv'n, when my rich spoils
Seem'd little priz'd. I like not this. 'Twere well
He were remov'd. We will consider this.

Elb.
Come to your chamber then.

Ethw.
No, no! into that dark oppressive den
Of horrid thoughts I'll not return.

Elb.
Not so!
I've trimm'd the smould'ring fire, and by your couch
The holy things are laid: return and fear not.

Ethw.
I thank thy kindness; I, indeed, have need
Of holy things, if that a stained soul
May kindred hold with such.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A vaulted prison. Hereulf, Selred, and three Thanes of their party, are discovered walking gloomily and silently up and down.
1st Th.
(to the 2d, who groans heavily).
Ah! wherefore, noble partner, art thou thus?
We all are brothers, equal in misfortune;
Let us endure it nobly!

2d Th.
Ay, so I would, but it o'ercometh me.
E'en this same night, in my far distant home
Fires blaze upon my towers, to guide my steps
Through woody dells which I shall pass no more.
E'en on this night I promis'd to return.

1st Th.
Yet bear it up, and do not dash us thus;
We all have pleasant homes as well as thou,
To which I fear we shall no more return.

Sel.
(to 3d Thane, who advances from the bottom of the stage).
What didst thou look at yonder? Where is Ethelbert?

3d Th.
Within yon deep recess, upon his knees,
Just now I saw him, and I turn'd aside,
Knowing the modest nature of his worship.

Enter Ethelbert from the recess, slowly advancing from the bottom of the stage.
Her.
(to Eth.)
Where has thou been, brave Ethelbert? Ah! now
Full well I see; thy countenance declares.
Didst thou remember us? A good man's prayers
Will from the deepest dungeon climb heav'n's height,
And bring a blessing down.

Eth.
Ye all are men who with undaunted hearts
Most nobly have contended for the right.
Your recompense is sure; ye shall be bless'd.

2d Th.
How bless'd? With what assurance of the mind
Hast thou pray'd for us? Tell us truly, Ethelbert;
As those about to die, or those who yet
Shall for a term this earthly state retain?
Such strong impress'd ideas oft foreshow
Th' event to follow.

Eth.
Man, ever eager to foresee his doom
With such conceits his fancy fondly flatters,
And I too much have given my mind to this;
But let us now, like soldiers on the watch
Put our soul's armour on, alike prepared
For all a soldier's warfare brings. In heav'n
He sits, who on the inward war of souls
Looks down, as one beholds a well-fought field,
And nobly will reward the brave man's struggle.
[Raising his clasped hands fervently.
O let Him now behold what His weak creatures,
With many cares and fears of nature weak,
Firmly relying on His righteous rule,
Will suffer cheerfully! Be ye prepared!

Her.
We are prepared: what say ye, noble colleagues?

1st Th.
If that I here a bloody death must meet,
And in some nook unbless'd, far from the tombs
Of all mine honour'd race, these bones be laid,
I do submit me to the will of heaven.

3d Th.
E'en so do I in deep submission bow.

2d Th.
If that no more within my op'ning gates
My children and my wife shall e'er again
Greet my return, or this chill'd frame again
E'er feel the kindly warmth of home, so be it!
His blessed will be done who ruleth all!

Her.
If these nerv'd arms, full in the strength of youth,
Must rot in the earth, and all my glorious hopes
To free this land, with which high beat this heart,
Must be cut off i' the midst, I bow my spirit
To its Almighty Lord; I murmur not.
Yet, O that it had been permitted me
To have contended in that noble cause!
Low must I sleep in an unnoted grave,
While the oppressor of my native country
Riots in brave men's blood!

Eth.
Peace, noble boy! he will not riot long.
They shall arise, who for that noble cause,
With better fortune, not with firmer hearts
Than we to the work have yoked, will bravely strive.
To future heroes shall our names be known;
And in our graves of turf we shall be bless'd.

Her.
Well then, I'm satisfied: I'll smile in death;
Yea, proudly will I smile! it wounds me not.

Eth.
How, Selred? thou alone art silent here:
To heaven's high will what off'ring makest thou?

Sel.
Nothing, good Ethelbert. What can a man,
Little enriched with the mind's rare treasure,
And of th' unrighteous turmoil of this world
Right weary grown, to his great Maker offer?
Yet I can die as meekly as ye will,
Albeit of His regard it is unworthy.

Eth.
Give me thy hand, brave man! Well hast thou said!
In truth thy off'ring far outprizes all;
Rich in humility. Come, valiant friends;
It makes my breast beat high to see you thus
For Fortune's worst prepar'd with quiet minds.
I'll sit me down awhile; come, gather round me,
And for a little space the time beguile
With the free use and interchange of thought:
Of that which no stern tyrant can control.

[They all sit down on the ground.
Her.
(to Eth.)
Nay, on my folded mantle do thou sit.

Eth.
I thank thee, but I feel no cold. My children!
We do but want, methinks, a blazing fire,
To make us thus a friendly chosen circle
For converse met. Then we belike would talk
Of sprites, and magic power, and marv'llous things,
That shorten weary hours; now let us talk
Of things that do th' inquiring mind of man
With nobler wonder fill; that state unseen,
With all its varied mansions of delight,
To which the virtuous go, when like a dream
Struck by the beams of op'ning day, this life,
With all its shadowy forms, fades into nothing.

1st Th.
Ay, Ethelbert, thou'rt full of sacred lore;
Talk thou of this, and we will gladly heart thee.
How thinkst thou we shall feel, when, like a nestling
Burst from its shell, we wake to this new day?

Eth.
Why e'en, methinks, like to the very thing
To which, good Thane, thou hast compared us;
For here we are but nestlings, and I trow,
Pent up i' the dark we are. When that shall open
Which human eye hath ne'er beheld, nor mind
To human body linked, hath e'er conceiv'd,
Grand, awful, lovely:—O! what form of words
Will body out my thoughts!—I'll hold my peace.
[Covers his head with his hand and is silent for a moment.
Then like a guised band, that for awhile
Has mimick'd forth a sad and gloomy tale,
We shall these worthless weeds of flesh cast off,
And be the children of our Father's house.

Her.
(eagerly).
But what sayst thou of those who doff these weeds
To clothe themselves in flames and endless woe?

Eth.
Peace to thee! what have we to do with this?
Let it be veil'd in night!

Her.
Nay, nay, good Ethelbert!
I fain would know what foul oppression earns;
And please my fancy with the after-doom
Of tyrants, such as he beneath whose fangs
Our wretched country bleeds. They shall be cursed:
O say how deeply!

Eth.
Hereulf, the spirit of Him thou call'st thy master,
Who died for guilty men, breathes not in thee.
Dost thou rejoice that aught of human kind
Shall be accursed?

Her.
(starting up).
If not within the fiery gulf of woe
His doom be cast, there is no power above!

Eth.
For shame, young man! this ill beseems thy state:
Sit down and I will tell thee of this Ethwald.

Sel.
(rising up greatly agitated).
O no! I pray thee do not talk of him!
The blood of Mollo has been Mercia's curse.

Eth.
Sit down; I crave it of you both; sit down
And wear within your breasts a manlier spirit.
[Pointing to Her. to sit close by him.
Nay here, my son, and let me take thy hand.
Thus by my side, in his fair op'ning youth,
Full oft has Ethwald sat and heard me talk,
With, as I well believe, a heart inclined,
Though somewhat dash'd with shades of darker hue,
To truth and kindly deeds.
But from this mixed seed of good and ill
One baleful plant in dark strength rais'd its head,
O'ertopping all the rest; which fav'ring circumstance
Did feed and strengthen to a growth so monstrous,
That underneath its wide and noxious shade
Died all the native plants of feebler stem.
O I have wept for him, as I have lain
On my still midnight couch! I tried to save him,
But ev'ry means against its end recoil'd.
Good Selred, thou rememb'rest well that night
When to the female Druid's awful cave
I led thy brother.

Sel.
I remember well.

All the Thanes
(speaking at once, eagerly.)
Ay, what of that? We've heard strange tales of it.

Eth.
At my request the Arch Sister there receiv'd him:
And though she promis'd me she would unfold
Such things as might a bold ambitious mind
Scare from its wishes, she, unweetingly,
Did but the more inflame them.

Her.
Ha! what sayst thou?
Did she not show the form of things to come
By fix'd decrees, unsubject to her will?

Eth.
She show'd him things, indeed, most wonderful;
Whether by human arts to us unknown,
Or magic, or the aid of powerful spirits
Call'd forth, I wot not. Hark! I hear a noise.

1st Th.
I hear without the tread of many feet.
They pull our dungeon's bars: ha, see who come!
Wear they not ruffians brows?

2d Th.
And follow'd still by more: a num'rous crew.
What is their business here?

[Enter a band of armed men, accompanied by two priests, and carrying with them a block, an axe, and a large sheet or curtain, &c.
Eth.
Do not the axe and block borne by those slaves
Tell thee their errand? But we'll face them bravely.
They do not come upon us unawares:
We are prepar'd.—Let us take hands, my friends!
Let us united stand, a worthy band
Of girded trav'llers, ready to depart
Unto a land unknown, but yet undreaded.

[They all take hands, facing about, and waiting the approach of the men with a steady countenance.
1st priest.
Why look you on us thus with lowering brows?
Can linked hands the keen-edg'd steel resist?

Her.
No, priest, but linked hearts can bid defiance
To the barb'd lightning, if so arm'd withal
Thou didst encounter us. Quick do thine office!
Here six brave heads abide thee, who ne'er yet
Have meanly bow'd themselves to living wight.

1st priest.
You are too forward, youth: less will suffice:
One of those guilty heads beneath our axe
Must fall, the rest shall live. So wills our chief.
Lots shall decide our victim: in this urn
Inclosed are your fates.
[Setting down an urn in the middle of the stage upon a small tripod or stand, whilst the chiefs instantly let go hands, and stand gazing upon one another.
Ha! have I then so suddenly unlink'd you?
[With a malicious smile.
Put forth your hands, brave chiefs; put forth your hands;
And he who draws the sable lot of death,
Full speedy be his doom!
[A long pause: the chiefs still look upon one another, none of them offering to step forward to the urn.
What pause ye thus, indeed? This hateful urn
Doth but one death contain, and many lives,
And shrink ye from it, brave and valiant Thanes?
Then lots shall first be cast, who foremost shall
Thrust in his hand into this vase of terrors.

Eth.
(stepping forth).
No, thou rude servant of a gentle master,
Doing disgrace to thy much honour'd garb,
This shall not be: I am the eldest chief,
And I of right should stand the foremost here.
[Putting his hand into the urn
What heaven appoints me, welcome!

Sel.
(putting in his hand).
I am the next: heav'n send me what it lists!

1st Th.
(putting in his hand).
Here also let me take. If that the race
Of noble Cormac shall be sunk in night,
How small a thing determines!

2d Th.
(putting in his hand).
On which shall fix my grasp? (hesitating)
or this? or this?
No, cursed thing! whate'er thou art, I'll have thee.

3d Th.
(putting out his hand with purturbation, misses the narrow mouth of the urn).
I wist not how it is: where is its mouth?

1st priest.
Direct thy hand more steadily, good Thane,
And fear not thou wilt miss it.
(To Hereulf.)
Now, youthful chief, one lot remains for thee.

[Hereulf pauses for a moment, and his countenance betrays perturbation, when Ethelbert steps forth again.
Eth.
No, this young chieftain's lot belongs to me;
He shall not draw.
[Putting in his hand quickly and taking out the last lot.
Now, priest, the lots are finish'd.

1st priest.
Well, open then your fates.

[They each open their lots, whilst Hereulf stands looking eagerly in their faces as they open them.
2d Th.
(opening his, and then holding up his hands in ecstasy).
Wife, children, home! I am a living man!

1st Th.
(having opened his).
I number still with those who breathe the air,
And look upon the light! blest heaven so wills it.

3d Th.
(looking at his joyfully).
Fate is with me! the race of Cormac lives!

Her.
(after looking anxiously first upon Ethelbert and then upon Selred).
Selred, what is thy lot? is it not dark?

Sel.
No, Hereulf.

Her.
Oh, Ethelbert! thou smilest on me! alas!
It is a dismal smile! thou art the victim!
Thou shalt not die: the lot of right is mine.
A shade of human weakness cross'd my soul,
Such as before, not in the horrid fields
Of crimson slaughter did I ever feel;
But it is past; now I can bravely die,
And I will have my right.

Eth.
(pushing him affectionately away).
Away, my son! It is as it should be.

Her.
O if thou wilt entreat me as a man,
Nor slur me with contempt! I do beseech thee
Upon my bended knee! (Kneeling.)
O if thou diest,
I of all living things most wretched am!

Eth.
Be temperate, my son! thou art reserv'd
For what the fervid strength of active youth
Can best perform. O take him from me, friends!
[The Thanes take Hereulf forcibly from clinging round Ethelbert, and he then assumes a softened solemnity.
Now, my brave friends, we have together fought
A noble warfare; I am call'd away!
Let me in kind and true affection leave you.

Thanes
(speaking together).
Alas, thou art our father and our friend!
Alas, that thou shouldst meet this dismal end!

Eth.
Ay, true indeed, it is a dismal end
To mortal feeling; yet within my breast
Blest hope and love, and heav'nward confidence,
With human frailty so combined are,
That I do feel a wild and trembling pleasure.
E'en on this awful verge, methinks I go,
Like a chid infant, from his passing term
Of short disgrace, back to his father's presence.
[Holding up his hands with a dignified exultation.
I feel an awful joy!—Farewell, my friends!
Selred, we've fought in many a field together,
And still as brothers been; take thou, I pray,
This token of my love. And thou, good Wolfere,
I've ever priz'd thy worth, wear thou this ring.
(To the two other chiefs, giving them also tokens.)
And you, brave chiefs, I've ever loved you both.
And now, my noble Hereulf,
Of all the youth to whom my soul e'er knit,
As with a parent's love, in the good cause,
Thee have I found most fervent and most firm;
Be thine my sword, which in my native hall
Hung o'er my noble father's arms thou'lt find,
And be it in thy hands what well thou knowst
It would have been in mine. Farewell, my friends!
God bless you all!

[They all crowd about him, some kissing his hands, some taking hold of his clothes, except Hereulf, who, starting away from him, throws himself upon the ground in an agony of grief. Ethelbert lifts up his eyes and his hands as if he were uttering a blessing over them.
1st priest.
This may not be! down with those impious hands!
Dar'st thou, foul heretic, before the face
Of hallow'd men, thus mutter prayers accurst?

Eth.
Doth this offend you?—O it makes me feel
A spirit for this awful hour unmeet,
When I do think on you, ye hypocrites!

1st priest.
Come, come! we waste our time, the headsman waits.
(To Eth.)
Prepare thee for the block.

Eth.
And will you in the sight of these my friends
Your bloody task perform? Let them retire.

1st priest.
Nay, nay, that may not be, our pious Hexulf
Has given his orders.

2d priest.
O be not so cruel!
Though he has ordered so, yet, ne'ertheless,
We may suspend this veil, and from their eyes
The horrid sight conceal.

1st priest.
Then be it so; I grant it.

[A large cloth or curtain is suspended upon the points of two spears, held up by spearmen, concealing the block and executioner, &c. from the Thanes.
1st priest
(to the men behind the curtain, after a pause).
Are ye ready?
(Voices behind.)
Yes, we are ready now.

1st priest
(To Eth.).
And thou?

Eth.
God be my strength! I'm ready also.
[As the priest is leading Ethelbert behind the curtain, he turns about to give a last look to his friends; and they, laying their hands devoutly upon their breasts, bow to him very low. They then go behind the curtain, leaving the Thanes on the front of the stage, who stand fixed in silent and horrid expectation; except Selred, who sits down upon the ground with his face hid between his knees, and Hereulf, who, rising suddenly from the ground, looks wildly round, and seeing Ethelbert gone, throws himself down again in all the distraction of grief and despair.

A voice behind
(after some noise and bustle of preparation has been heard).
Now doff his garment, and undo his vest.
Fie on it, there! assist the prisoner.

2d voice.
Let some one hold his hands.

3d voice.
Do ye that office.
[A pause of some length.

Voice again.
Headsman, let fall thy blow, he gives the sign.

[The axe is seen lifted up above the curtain, and the sound of the stroke is heard.
Thanes
(shrinking involuntarily. and all speaking at once).
The stroke of death is given!

[The spearmen let fall the curtain, and the body of Ethelbert is discovered upon the ground, with a cloth over it; whilst his head is held up by the executioner, but seen very indistinctly through the spears and pikes of the surrounding soldiers. The Thanes start back and avert their faces.
1st priest.
(coming forward).
Rebellious Thanes, ye see a deed of justice.
Here rest ye, and another day of life
Enjoy together: at this hour to-morrow
We'll visit you, and then, by lot determin'd,
Another head must fall. So wills the king.

1st Th.
What words are these?

2d Th.
Do thine ears catch their sense?

3d Th.
I cannot tell thee; mine confus'dly sound.

1st priest
(raising his voice louder).
To-morrow at this hour we'll visit you.
And here again, selected by the lot,
Another head must fall. Till then, farewell!
Another day of life enjoy securely:
Much happiness be with you.

[An involuntary groan bursts from the Thanes, and Hereulf, starting furiously from the ground, clenches his hands in a menacing posture as the priests and spearmen, &c. retire. The scene closes.

ACT V

SCENE I.

An open space on the walls of the castle. Enter Alwy and Hexulf, talking as they enter with violent gesture.
Hex.
Escap'd, sayst thou, with all the rebel chiefs?
Hereulf escap'd? th' arch fiend himself hath done it,
If what thou sayst be true.—It is impossible.
Sayst thou they are escap'd?

Alwy.
In very truth they are.

Hex.
Then damned treachery has aided them!

Alwy.
Nay, rather say, thy artful cruelty
Arm'd them with that which to the weakly frame
Lends a nerved giant's strength, despair. From out
The thick and massy wall, now somewhat loose
And jagged grown with time, cemented heaps,
Which scarce two teams of oxen could have mov'd,
They've torn, and found a passage to the moat.
What did it signify in what dire form
Death frown'd upon them, so as they had died?

Hex.
Who can foresee events? As well as thou
I would that one swift stroke had slain them all
Rather than this had been. But Ethelbert
And Selred are secur'd. Was it not Selred
Who on the second night our victim fell?

Alwy.
It was, but better had it been for us
Had they been left alive: had they been still
In their own castles unmolested left.
For like a wounded serpent, who, aloft,
The surgy volumes of his mangled length
In agony the more terrific rears
Against his enemy, this maimed compact
Will from thy stroke but the more fiercely rise,
Now fiery Hereulf is their daring leader.
And what have we to look for?

Hex.
Dire, bloody vengeance.—O some damned traitor
Hath done this work! it could not else have been!

Alwy.
Well, do thou find him out then, if thou canst,
And let thy vengeance fall where lies the sin.

Hex.
Doth the king know of this?

Alwy.
He doth not yet.

Hex.
Then must he be inform'd without delay.

Alwy.
As quickly as you please, if that you please
To take that office on yourself, good father;
But as for me, I must right plainly say
I will not venture it: no, faith! of late
The frame and temper of King Ethwald's mind
Is chang'd. He ever was in former times
Cheerful, collected, sanguine; for all turns
Of fate prepar'd, like a fair ample lake,
Whose breast receives the azure hue of heaven,
And sparkles gaily in the breezy noon:
But now, like a swoln flood, whose course has been
O'er rude opposing rocks and rugged shelves;
Whose turbid waters wear the sullen shade
Of dark o'erhanging banks, and all enchaf'd
Round ev'ry little pebble fiercely roars,
Boiling in foamy circles, his chaf'd spirit
Can bear th' encounter of no adverse thing
To his stern will oppos'd. I may not tell him.

Hex.
Be not so fearful! art thou not a man
Us'd to the sudden turns of great men's humours?
Thou best can do it, Alwy.

(Soothingly.)
Alwy.
Nay, father, better will it suit your age
And rev'rend state. And he has need, I ween,
Of ghostly counsel too; night after night
He rises from his tossing sleepless couch,
Oft wildly staring round the vacant chamber,
As if his fancy peopled the dark void
With horrid shapes. The queen hath told me this.
Come, look to it, for something must be done.

Hex.
I will accompany your homeward steps,
Whilst we consider of it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A royal apartment, and a servant discovered busily employed in lighting it up. Enter to him another servant.
2d serv.
Wilt thou ne'er finish lighting these grim walls?
Will not those lamps suffice?

1st serv.
No, by my faith, we want as many more;
For still, thou seest, that pillar'd corner's dark,
[Pointing to a gloomy recess on the other side of the stage.
Wherein the eye of conscience-scared folks
Might fearful things espy. I am commanded
To lighten each apartment of this tower
To noon-day pitch.

2d serv.
Ay, Uthbert, these are fearful, bloody times!
Ethwald, God knows, has on his conscience laid
A weight of cruel deeds: the executioner
Works for him now in the grim holds of death,
Instead of armed warriors in the field;
And now men steal abroad in twilight's gloom,
To talk of fearful things, not by the blaze
Of cheerful fires, in peaceful cottage, heap'd
With sparkling faggots from the winter store.

1st serv.
Ay, thou sayst well; it is a fearful time;
No marvel Ethwald should not love the dark
In which his fancy shapes all fearful things.

2d serv.
What, dost thou think it is his fancy's shapes
He looks upon? No, no: believe me, friend,
Night and the darkness are inhabited
By those who move near neighbours to the living;
Close by their very sides, yet unperceiv'd
By all, but those whose eyes unveiled are
By heavenly power, in mercy or in wrath.
Such proofs of this I've heard.—Last night thou knowst
The royal grooms who near their master sleep,
In the adjoining chamber much were scar'd
With fearful sounds.

1st serv.
I know it not.—Who was it told it thee?
At midnight was it?

(Eagerly.)
2d serv.
Yes, come with me to Baldwick, he will tell thee;
He heard it all: thou wilt return in time
To finish, here, thy task. We'll have a horn
Of foaming ale, and thou shalt hear it all.
Good foaming ale: ay, mercy on us all'
We live in fearful times!

(Listening.)
1st serv.
(listening also).
What shall I do?
I hear the king a speaking angrily,
And coming hitherward. What shall I do?
Shall I remain and face him? nay, good faith!
I'll shun the storm; he is engag'd, perchance,
Too much to notice my unfinish'd task.

[Exeunt hastily.
Enter Ethwald, talking angrily to a noble Thane.
Ethw.
Nay, nay, these are excuses, noble Edmar,
Not reasons; all our northern troops ere now
Might well have been in readiness. 'Tis plain
Such backward sloth from disaffection springs.
Look to it well:—if with the waning moon,
He and his vassals have not join'd our standard,
I'll hold him as a traitor.

Th.
My royal lord, be not so wrathful with him,
Nor let your noble mind to dark suspicion
So quickly yield. This is the season still,
When unbraced warriors on the rushy floor
Stretch them in pleasing sloth; list'ning to tales
Of ancient crones, or merry harpers' lays,
And batt'ning on the housewife's gusty cheer:
Spring has not yet so temper'd the chill sky
That men will change their warm and shelt'ring roofs
For its cold canopy.

Ethw.
O foul befall their gluttony and sloth!
Fie on't! there is no season to the brave
For war unfit. With this moon's waning light
I will, with those who dare their king to follow,
My northern march begin.

Th.
Then, faith, my lord,
I much suspect your army will be small:
And what advantage may you well expect
From all this haste? E'en three weeks later, still
You will surprise the foe, but ill prepar'd
To oppose invasion. Do then, gracious king,
Listen to friendly counsel, and the while,
Within these walls, where ev'ry pleasure courts you,
Like a magnificent and royal king,
Your princely home enjoy.

Ethw.
Out on it, man, thou knowst not what thou sayst!
Home hath he none who once becomes a king!
Behind the pillar'd masses of his halls
The dagger'd traitor lurks; his vaulted roofs
Do nightly echo to the whisper'd vows
Of those who curse him; at his costly board
With grinning smile the damned pois'ner sits;
Yea, e'en the void recesses of his chamber,
Void though they be unto all eyes but his,
Are peopled—

[Stopping short.
Th.
(eagerly).
Good my lord! what do you mean?

Ethw.
In the confusion of tumultuous war,
'Midst the terrific shouts of closing foes,
And trampling steeds, and din of bick'ring arms;
Where dying warriors groan unheard, and things
Horrid to nature are as though they were not,
Unwail'd, unheeded:
Where the rough chance of each contentious day
Blots out all irksome mem'ry of the past,
All fear of that to follow: where like herds,
Of savage beasts, on the bleak mountain's side,
Drench'd with the rain, the weary warriors lie,
Whilst nightly tempests howling o'er their heads
Lull them to rest; there is my home, good Thane.

Th.
No marvel, then, my lord, if to the field
You turn your eager thoughts! I only fear
Your royal arms will in Northumberland
Find no contention worthy of their force;
For rumour says, the northern prince is gone
With his best troops against the Scottish king.

Ethw.
If this be true, it is unto my fortune
Most fair occasion; master of the north
I soon shall be, and on the west again
Pour like a torrent big with gather'd strength.
Who told thee this? it breaks upon me, friend,
Like bright'ning sunbeams thwart a low'ring sky.

Th.
A northern villain brought to me the tale,
And told with circumstances of good credit.

Ethw.
Run thou and find him out; I'll wait thee here;
I must have more assurance of this matter.
Quickly, my worthy Edmar! [Exit Thane.
(Alone.)

If that this rumour bear a true report,
Th' opposing rocks on which my rising tide
So long has beat, before me now give way,
And through the beach my onward waves shall roll
To the wide limits of their destin'd reach.
Full day, although tempestuous it may prove,
Now breaks on me! now come the glorious height,
And the proud front, and the full grasp of power!
Fly, gloomy thoughts, and hideous fantasies,
Back to the sprites that sent you! England's king
Behind him casts the fears of Mercia's lord.
The north subdued, then stretching to the west
My growing strength—
[Stretching out his arms in the vehemence of action, he turns himself round, directly facing the gloomy recess on the opposite side of the stage.
Ha! doth some gloomy void still yawn before me,
In fearful shade?
[Turning his eyes away hastily from it.
No; I saw nothing: shall I thus be moved
With ev'ry murky nook? I'll look again.
[Steals a fearful look to the recess, and then starting back, turns away from it with horror.
O they're all there again! and ev'ry phantom
Mark'd with its grisly wounds, e'en as before.
Ho! who waits there? Hugon! I say, ho, Hugon!
Come to me! quickly come!

Enter a Groom of his chamber.
Groom.
Save you, my royal lord! What is your pleasure?
Are you in pain? Your voice did sound, methought,
With strange unnatural strength.

Ethw.
Bring me lights here.

Groom.
A hundred lamps would scarce suffice, I ween,
To light this spacious chamber.

Ethw.
Then let a thousand do it; must I still
In ev'ry shady corner of my house
See hideous—quickly go, and do my bidding.
Why star'st thou round thee thus? Dost thou see aught?

Groom.
No, nothing.

[Looking round fearfully.
Ethw.
Thou needst not look; 'tis nothing; fancy oft
Deceives the eye with strange and flitting things.
Regard it not, but quickly bring more lamps

Groom.
Nay, good my lord, shall I remain with you,
And call my fellow?

Ethw.
(angrily).
Do as thou art commanded.
[Exit groom.
This man perceives the weakness of my mind.
Am I, indeed, the warlike king of Mercia?
[Re-enter two grooms with lamps, which they place in the recess. Ethwald, not venturing to look on it again till the lights are placed, now turns round to it, and seems relieved.
Ye have done well.
[After a pause, in which he walks several times across the stage, stopping short, and seeing the grooms still there.
Why do ye linger here? I want ye not.
Begone.
[Exeunt grooms.
But that I would not to those fools
Betray the shameful secret of my mind,
I fain would call them back.
What are these horrors?
A fearful visitation of a time
That will o'erpass? O might I so believe it!
Edmar, methinks, ere this might be return'd:
I'll wait for him no more: I'll go myself
And meet him.
[Going towards the large arched door by which he entered, he starts back from it with horror.
Ha! they are there again!
E'en in the very door-way do they front me!
Still foremost Ethelbert and Selred tower
With their new-sever'd necks, and fix on me
Their death-strain'd eye-balls: and behind them frowns
The murder'd youth, and Oswal's scepter'd ghost:
While seen, as if half-fading into air,
The pale distracted maid shows her faint form.
Thrice in this very form and order seen
They have before me stood. What may it mean?
I've heard that shapes like these will to the utterance
Of human voice give back articulate sound,
And having been adjured so, depart.
[Stretching out both his hands, and clenching them resolutely.
I'll do it, though behind them hell should yawn,
With all its unveil'd horrors.
[Turning again to the doorway with awful solemnity.
If aught ye be but flitting fantasies,
But empty semblance of the form ye wear;
If aught ye be that can to human voice
Real audience give, and a real sense receive
Of that on which your fix'd and hollow eyes
So stern and fix'dly glare; I do conjure you
Depart from me, and come again no more!
From me depart! Full well those ghastly wounds
Have been return'd into this tortur'd breast:
O drive me not unto the horrid brink
Of dire distraction!
Speak, Ethelbert! O speak, if voice thou hast!
Tell me what sacrifice can soothe your spirits;
Can still the unquiet sleepers of the grave:
For this most horrid visitation is
Beyond endurance of the boldest mind,
In flesh and blood enrob'd.—It takes no heed,
But fix'dly glares upon me as before.
I speak to empty air: it can be nothing.
Is it not some delusion of the eyes?
[Rubbing his eyes very hard, and rousing himself.
Ah! still the hideous semblance is before me,
Plain as at first. I cannot suffer this!
[Runs to the lamps, and taking one in each hand, rushes forward in despair to the doorway.
They are all gone! Before the searching light
Resolv'd to nothing!

Enter Hexulf and Alwy.
Ethw.
(turning hastily upon hearing them enter behind him).
Ha! is it you? Most happily you come!
Welcome you are, most welcome!

Alwy.
Thanks to you, good my lord! but on my life
This holy bishop and myself are come,
Unwillingly, with most untoward tidings.

Ethw.
Well, use not many words: what now befalls?

Hex.
The rebel Hereulf and his thralled mates
Have, with more strength than human hands may own,
For that the holy church—

Ethw.
Well, well, what meanest thou?
And what should follow this?

Alwy.
They've brok'n their prison walls and are escap'd.

Ethw.
I am glad on't! be it so! in faith I'm glad!
We have shed blood enough.

Alwy.
Nay, but my lord, unto their towers of strength
They will return; where bruiting abroad
Their piteous tale, as 'nighted travellers
To the false plainings of some water fiend,
All men will turn to them; nor can your troops
In safety now begin their northern march
With such fell foes behind them.

Ethw.
(roused).
Ay, thou sayst true; it is a damned let!
Here falls another rock to bar my way.
But I will on! Come, let us instantly
Set out, and foil them ere they gather strength.

Alwy.
This would be well, but that within these walls
Some of their faithful friends are still confin'd,
Who in our absence might disturbance breed,
As but a feeble guard can now be spar'd
To hold the castle. How shall this be settled?
Shall we confine them in the stronger vaults?

Ethw.
(fiercely).
No, no! I'll have no more imprisonments!
Let them be slain; yea all: even to a man!
This is no time for weak uncertain deeds.
Saw you not Edmar as you hither came?

Alwy.
We saw him with a stranger much engaged,
By a faint lamp, near to the eastern tower.

Ethw.
Then follow me, and let us find him out.

Hex.
We follow you, my lord.

Ethw.
(as he is about to go out, turning hastily round to Alwy).
Bear thou a light.
My house is like a faintly mooned cave,
And hateful shadows cross each murky aisle.

[Exeunt, Alwy bearing a light.

SCENE III.

The evening: a wood with a view of Ethwald's castle seen through the trees. Enter Hereulf disguised like a country hind: enter to him, by another path, a Thane, disguised also.
Her.
Welcome, my friend! art thou the first to join me?
This as I guess should be th' appointed time:
For o'er our heads have passed on homeward wing
Dark flights of rooks and daws and flocking birds,
Wheeling aloft with wild dissonant screams;
And from each hollow glen and river's bed
The white mist slowly steals in fleecy wreaths
Up the dark wooded banks. And yet, methinks,
The deeper shades of ev'ning come not after,
As they are wont, but day is lengthen'd out
Most strangely.

Th.
Seest thou those paly streams of shiv'ring light
So widely spread along the northern sky?
They to the twilight grey that brightness lend
At which thou wonderest. Look up, I pray thee!

Her.
(turning and looking up).
What may it mean? it is a beauteous light.

Th.
In truth I know not. Many a time have I
On hill and heath beheld the changeful face
Of awful night; I've seen the moving stars
Shoot rapidly athwart the sombre sky,
Red fiery meteors in the welkin blaze,
And sheeted lightnings gleam, but ne'er before
Saw I a sight like this. It is, belike,
Some sign portentous of our coming fate:
Had we not better pause and con awhile
This daring scene, ere yet it be too late?

Her.
No, by this brave man's sword! not for an hour
Will I the glorious vengeful deed delay,
Though heav'n's high dome were flaming o'er my head,
And earth beneath me shook. If it be aught
Portentous, it must come from higher powers:
For demons ride but on the lower clouds,
Or raise their whirlwinds in the nether air.
All blessed spirits still must favour those
Who war on virtue's side: therefore, I say,
Let us march boldly to the glorious work:
It is a sign foretelling Ethwald's fall.
Now for our valiant friends; they must be near.
Ho! holla, ho!
[Enter by different paths in the wood, the other chiefs, disguised, and gather round Hereulf, he receiving them joyfully.
Welcome! all welcome! you good Thane, and you,
And ev'ry valiant soul, together leagued
In this bold enterprise. Well are we met.
So far we prosper; and my glowing heart
Tells me our daring shall be nobly crown'd.
Now move we cheerly on our way: behold
Those frowning towers, where, ere the morning watch,
That shall be done, for which, e'en in our graves,
Full many a gen'rous Mercian, yet unborn,
Shall bless our honour'd names.

Chiefs
(speaking all together).
We follow you, brave Hereulf.

1st chief.
Ay, with true heart, or good or ill betide,
We'll follow you.

Her.
Come on! ere this, with fifty chosen men,
Our trusty colleague, near the northern gate,
Attends our signal. Come, ye gen'rous few;
Ye who have groan'd in the foul dungeon's gloom,
Whose gen'rous bosoms have indignant heav'd
To see free men beneath th' oppressor's yoke
Like base-born villains press'd! Now comes the hour
Of virtuous vengeance: on our side in secret
Beats ev'ry Mercian heart: the tyrant now
Trusts not to men: nightly within his chamber
The watch-dog guards his couch, the only friend
He now dare trust, but shall not guard it long.
Follow my steps, and do the gen'rous deeds
Of valiant freemen: heaven is on our side.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

An open space within the walls of the castle, fronting one of the gates: the stage darkened, and the sky lighted up with the aurora borealis, very bright. Enter by opposite sides two Officers of the castle.
1st off.
Ha! is it thou, my friend?
Thou'st left thy post, I guess, as well as I,
To view this awful sky. Look over head,
Where like a mighty dome, from whose bright centre
Shoot forth those quiv'ring rays of vivid light,
Moving with rapid change on every side,
Swifter than flitting thought, the heavens appear!
While o'er the west in paler brightness gleam
Full many a widely undulating tide
Of silver light: and the dark low'ring east,
Like to a bloody mantle stretched out,
Seems to conceal behind its awful shade
Some dread commotion of the heavenly powers,
Soon to break forth—some grand and unknown thing.

2d off.
It is an awful sight! what may it mean?
Doth it not woes and bloody strife foretell?
I've heard my father talk of things like this.—
When the king's passing sickness shall be gone,
Which has detain'd him from his purpos'd march
Against the rebel chiefs, doubt not, my friend,
We shall have bloody work.

1st off.
Ay, but ere that, mayhap, the man of blood
May bleed; and Mercia from the tyrant's grasp—

2d off.
Hush, hush! thou art unwise: some list'ning ear—

1st off.
And if there should, what danger? all men now
Harbour such secret thoughts; and those who once
His youthful valour lov'd and warlike feats,
Now loathe his cruelty. I'll tell thee something—

[Drawing nearer him mysteriously.
2d off.
(frightened).
Hush, hush! I will not hear thee! hold thy tongue!
What will't avail, when on the bloody stake
Thy head is fix'd, that all men think as thou dost:
And he who fix'd thy cruel doom to-day
Shall die to-morrow?

1st off.
I'm mute, my friend: and now I plainly see
How he may lord it o'er a prostrate land,
Who trembles in his iron tower the while,
With but a surly mastiff for his friend.

2d off.
Nay, do not speak so loud. What men are these
Who pass the gate just now? shall we not stop them?

[Enter some of the leagued chiefs in disguise through the gate.
1st off.
No, do not trouble them. They are, I guess,
Some 'nighted rustics frighten'd with the sky,
Who seek the shelter of man's habitation.
In such an awful hour men crowd together,
As gath'ring sea-fowl flock before a storm.
With such a welkin blazing o'er our heads,
Shall men each other vex? e'en let them pass.

[Enter a crowd of frightened women and children.
2d off.
See what a crowd of women this way come,
With crying children clinging to their knees,
And infants in their arms! How now, good matrons?
Where do you run?

1st wom.
O do not stop us! to St. Alban's shrine
We run: there will we kneel, and lift our hands,
For that his holy goodness may protect us
In this most awful hour.

2d wom.
On, sisters, on!
The fiery welkin rages o'er our heads,
And we are sinful souls: O quickly move!

[Exeunt women and children.
2d off.
I also am, alack! a sinful soul:
I'll follow them and pray for mercy too.

1st off.
I'll to the northern wall, from whence the heavens
In full expanse are seen.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE V.

Ethwald's apartment: he is discovered sitting by his couch, with his elbows resting upon his knees, and supporting his head between both his hands; the Queen standing by him.
Queen.
Why sit you thus, my lord? it is not well:
It wears your strength: I pray you go to rest.
[A pause, and he makes no answer.
These nightly watchings much retard your cure;
Be then advis'd!
[A pause, and he still takes no notice.
Why are you thus unwilling?
The tower is barr'd, and all things are secure.

Ethw.
How goes the hour? is it the second watch?

Queen.
No, near the window now, I heard the guard
Exchange the word: the first is but half spent.

Ethw.
And does the fearful night still lie before me
In all its hideous length?
(Rising up with emotion.)
O ye successive terms of gloomy quiet!
Over my mind ye pass like rolling waves
Of dense oppression; while deep underneath
Lie all its noble powers and faculties
O'erwhelmed. If such dark shades must henceforth cross
My chequer'd life with still returning horrors,
O let me rest in the foul reptile's hole,
And take from me the being of a man!

Queen.
Too much thou givest way to racking thought:
Take this: it is a draught by cunning skill
Compounded curiously, and strongly charm'd;
With secret virtue fill'd—it soothes the mind,
And gives the body rest.

[Offering him a cup.
Ethw.
Sayst thou? then in good sooth I need it much.
I thank thee too; thou art a careful wife.
[Takes the cup, and as he is about to put it to his lips, stops short and looks suspiciously at her.
It has, methinks, a strange unkindly smell.
Taste it thyself; dost thou not take my meaning?
Do thou first drink of it.

Queen.
I am in health, my lord, and need it not.

Ethw.
By the dread powers of darkness, thou shalt drink it!
Ay, to the very dregs!

Queen.
What, would you cast on me such vile suspicions,
And treat a royal princess like your slave?

Ethw.
And so thou art. Thou rearst thy stately neck,
And while I list, thou flarest in men's eyes
A gorgeous queen; but unto me thou art—
I do command thee, drink it to the dregs.

Queen (subdued, and lifting the cup to her lips). Then be convinced how wrongful are thy thoughts.
Ethw.
(preventing her).
Forbear, I am too slightly mov'd to anger.
I should have known the being of thy state
Is all too closely with my fortune link'd.
Give me the cup. Thou sayst it soothes the mind?
If I indeed could rest-(Tastes it).
It tastes not well;
It is a bitter drug.

Queen.
Then give it me again; I'll hie to Dwina,
And get from her that which shall make it sweet.

[She walks to the door of another apartment, but as she is about to go out, Ethwald hurries after her, and catches her by the arm.
Ethw.
Thou shalt not go and leave me thus alone.

Queen.
I'll soon return again, and all around thee
Is light as noon-day.

Ethw.
Nay, nay, good wife, it rises now before me
In the full blaze of light.

Queen.
Ah! what meanst thou?

Ethw.
The faint and shadowy forms,
That in obscurity were wont to rise
In sad array, are with the darkness fled.
But what avails the light? for now since sickness
Has press'd upon my soul, in my lone moments,
E'en in the full light of my torch-clad walls,
A horrid spectre rises to my sight,
Close by my side, and plain and palpable,
In all good seeming and close circumstance,
As man meets man.

Queen.
Merey upon us! what form does it wear?

Ethw.
My murder'd brother's form.
He stands close by my side; his ghastly head
Shakes horridly upon its sever'd neck
As if new from the headsman's stroke; it moves
Still as I move; and when I look upon it,
It looks—No, no! I can no utterance find
To tell thee how it looks on me again.

Queen.
Yet, fear not now: I shall not long be absent;
And thou mayst hear my footsteps all the while,
It is so short a space.

[Exit Queen.
Ethw.
(returning to the middle of the stage).
I'll fix my steadfast eyes upon the ground,
And turn to other things my tutor'd thoughts
Intently. (After pausing for a little while, with his clenched hands crossed upon his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the ground.)
It may not be; I feel upon my mind
The horrid sense that preludes still its coming.
Elburga! ho, Elburga!

(Putting his hand before his eyes, and calling out with a strong voice of fear.)
Enter Queen in haste.
Queen.
Has't come again?

Ethw.
No; but I felt upon my pausing soul
The sure and horrid sense of its approach.
Hadst thou not quickly come, it had ere now
Been frowning by my side. The cup, the cup!

[Drinks eagerly.
Queen.
Heaven grant thee peace!
Wilt thou not send unto the holy priest,
To give thee ghostly comfort?

Ethw.
(shaking his head).
Away, away! to thee and to thy priests
I have, alas! lent too much heed already.

Queen.
Let not your noble spirit thus be shent!
Still bear good heart! these charmed drugs full soon
Will make you strong and vig'rous as before;
And in the rough sport of your northern war,
You will forget these dreadful fantasies.

Ethw.
Ay, thou speakst wisely now: methinks I still,
In the embattled field, 'midst circling hosts,
Could do the high deeds of a warlike king;
And what a glorious field now opens to me!
But, oh! this cursed bar; this ill-timed sickness;
It keeps me back ev'n like a bitted steed.
But it was ever thus! What have avail'd
My crimes, and cares, and blood, and iron toil?

Queen.
What have avail'd! art thou not king of Mercia?

Ethw.
Ay, ay, Elburga! 'tis enough for thee
To tower in senseless state and be a queen;
But to th' expanded and aspiring soul,
To be but still the thing it long has been
Is misery, e'en though enthron'd it were
Under the cope of high imperial state.
O cursed hind'rance! blasting fiends breathe on me.
Putst thou not something in thy damned drugs
That doth retard my cure? I might ere this
With cased limbs have stridden the clanging field,
And been myself again.—Hark! some one comes.

[Listening with alarm.
Queen.
Be not disturb'd, it is your faithful groom.
Who brings the watch-dog; all things are secure.

Ethw.
Nay, but I heard the sound of other feet.
[Running to the door, and pushing in a great bar.
Say, who art thou without?

Voice without.
Your groom, my lord, who brings your faithful dog.

Ethw.
(to Queen).
Didst thou not hear the sound of other feet?

Queen.
No, only his; your mind is too suspicious.

Ethw.
I in his countenance have mark'd of late
That which I liked not: were this dreary night
But once o'ermaster'd, he shall watch no more.
[Opens the door suspiciously, and enters an armed man leading in a great watch-dog: the door is shut again hastily and the bar is replaced. (To the dog.)
Come, rough and surly friend!
Thou only dost remain on whom my mind
Can surely trust. I'll have more dogs so train'd.
[Looking steadfastly at the groom.
Thy face is pale: thou hast a haggard look:
Where hast thou been?
[Seizing him by the neck.
Answer me quickly! Say, where hast thou been?

Gr.
Looking upon the broad and fearful sky.

Queen.
What sayst thou?

Gr.
The heaven's are all a flaming o'er our heads,
And fiery spears are shiv'ring through the air.

Ethw.
Hast thou seen this?

Gr.
Ay, by our holy saint!

Queen.
It is some prodigy, dark and portentous.

Gr.
A red and bloody mantle seems outstretch'd
O'er the wide welkin, and—

Ethw.
Peace, damned fool!
Tell me no more: be to thy post withdrawn.

[Exit groom by a small side-door, leading the dog with him.
Ethw.
(to himself, after musing for some time).
Heaven warring o'er my head! there is in this
Some fearful thing betoken'd.
If that, in truth, the awful term is come,
The fearful bound'ry of my mortal reach,
O'er which I must into those regions pass
Of horror and despair, to take my place
With those who do their blood-earn'd crowns exchange
For ruddy circles of devouring fire:
Where hopeless woe and gnashing agony
Writhe in the dens of torment; where things be
Yet never imaged in the thoughts of man,
Dark, horrible, unknown—
I'll mantle o'er my head, and think no more.

[Covers his head with his cloak, and sinks down upon the couch.
Queen.
Nay, rather stretch you on the fleecy bed.

Ethw.
Rest, if thou canst, I do not hinder thee.

Queen.
Then truly I will lean my head awhile.
I am o'erspent and weary.

[Leans on the couch.
Ethw.
(hastily uncovering his face).
Thou must not sleep: watch with meand be silent:
It is an awful hour!
[A long pause; then Ethwald starting up from the couch with alarm.
I hear strange sounds ascend the winding stairs.

Queen.
I hear them too.

Ethw.
Ha! dost thou also hear it?
Then it is real. (Listening.)
I hear the clash of arms.
Ho, guard! come forth.

Re-enter Groom.
Gr.
(disappears and then re-entering).
He sleeps so sound, my lord, I cannot rouse him.

Ethw.
Then, villain, I'm betray'd! thou hast betray'd me!
But set thy brawny strength against that door,
And bar them out: if thou but seemst to flinch,
This sword is in thy heart.

[A noise of armed men is now heard at the door endeavouring to break it open, whilst Ethwald and the groom set their shoulders to it to prevent them. Enter Dwina hastily from an inner apartment, and with the Queen assists in putting their strength also to the door, as the force without increases. The door is at last broken open, and Hereulf, with the rebel chiefs, burst in sword in hand.
Her.
(to Ethwald).
Now, thou fell ruthless lion, that hast made
With bloody rage thy native forest waste!
The spearmen are upon thee! to the strife
Turn thy rough breast: thou canst no more escape.

Ethw.
Quick to thy villain's work, thou wordy coward,
Who in the sick man's chamber seekst the fame
Thou dar'st not in th' embattled field attain!
I am prepar'd to front thee and thy mates,
Were ye twice numbered o'er.

[Sets his back to a pillar, and puts himself into a posture of defence.
Her.
The sick man's chamber! darest thou, indeed,
Begrimed as thou art with blood and crimes
'Gainst man committed, human rights assume?
Thou art a hideous and envenom'd snake,
Whose wounded length even in his noisome hole,
Men fiercely hunt, for love of human kind;
And wert thou scotch'd to the last ring of life,
E'en that poor remnant of thy curs'd existence
Should be trod out in the dust.

Ethw.
Come on, thou boasting fool! give thy sword work,
And spare thy cursed tongue.

Her.
Ay, surely will I!
It is the sword of noble Ethelbert:
Its master's blood weighs down its heavy strokes;
His unseen hand directs them.

[They fight: Ethwald defends himself furiously, but at last falls, and the conspirators raise a loud shout.
1st ch.
Bless heaven, the work is done!

2d ch.
Now Mercia is reveng'd, and free-born men
May rest their toil'd limbs in their peaceful homes.

3d ch.
(going nearer the body).
Ha! does he groan?

2d ch.
No, he dies sullenly, and to the wall
Turns his writh'd form and death-distorted visage.

[A solemn pause, whilst Ethwald, after some convulsive motions, expires.
Her.
Now hath his loaded soul gone to its place,
And ne'er a pitying voice from all his kind
Cries, “God have merey on him!”

3d ch.
I've vow'd to dip my weapon in his blood.

st ch.
And so have I.

[Several of them advancing with their swords towards the body, a young man steps forth, and stretches out his arm to keep them off.
Young man.
My father in the British wars was seiz'd
A British prisoner, and with all he had
Unto a Mercian chief by lot consign'd;
Mine aged grandsire, lowly at his feet,
Rent his grey hair; Ethwald, a youthful warrior,
Receiv'd the old man's pray'r and set him free;
Yea, even to the last heifer of his herds
Restor'd his wealth.
For this good deed, do not insult the fallen.
He was not ruthless once.

[They all draw back, and retire from the body. The Queen, who has, during the fight, &c., remained at a distance, agitated with terror and suspense, now comes forward to Hereulf with the air of one who supplicates for mercy, and Dwina, following close behind her, fulls upon her knees, as if to beseech him in favour of her mistress.
Queen.
If thou of good king Oswal, thine old master.
Aught of remembrance hast—

Her.
I do remember:
And deeply grieve to think a child of his
Has so belied her mild and gentle stock.
Nothing hast thou to fear: in some safe place,
In holy privacy, mayst thou repent
The evil thou hast done; for know, proud dame,
Thou art beneath our vengeance.
But as for thine advisers, that dark villain,
The artful Alwy, and that impious man,
Who does dishonour to his sacred garb,
Their crimes have earn'd for them a bitter meed,
And they shall have it.

2d ch.
Shall we not now the slumb'ring Mercians rouse,
And tell our countrymen that they are free
From the oppressor's yoke?

Her.
Yes, thou sayst well: through all the vexed land
Let every heart bound at the joyful tidings!
Thus from his frowning height the tyrant falls
Like a dark mountain, whose interior fires,
Raging in ceaseless tumult, have devour'd
Its own foundations. Sunk in sudden ruin
To the tremendous gulf, in the vast void
No friendly rock rears its opposing head
To stay the dreadful crash.
The joyful hinds, with grave and chasten'd joy,
Point to the traveller the hollow vale
Where once it stood, and the now sunned cots,
Where, near its base, they and their little ones
Dwelt trembling in its deep and fearful shade.

[Exeunt.

ORRA:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Hughobert, Count of Aldenberg.
• Glottenbal, his son.
• Theobald of Falkenstein, a nobleman of reduced fortune, and co-burgher of Basle.
• Rudigere, a knight, and commander of one of the free companies returned from the wars, and bastard of a branch of the family of Aldenberg.
• Hartman, friend of Theobald, and Banneret of Basle.
• Urston, a confessor.
• Franko, chief of a band of outlaws.
• Maurice, an agent of Rudigere's.
• Soldiers, vassals, outlaws, &c.

WOMEN

• Orra, heiress of another branch of the family of Aldenberg, and ward to Hughobert.
• Eleanora, wife to Hughobert.
• Cathrina, lady attending on Orra.
• Alice, lady attending on Orra.

Scene, Switzerland, in the canton of Basle, and afterwards on the borders of the Black Forest in Suabia. Time, towards the end of the 14th century.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An open space before the walls of a castle, with wild mountains beyond it; enter Glottenbal, armed as from the lists, but bare-headed and in disorder, and his arms soiled with earth or sand, which an Attendant is now and then brushing off, whilst another follows bearing his helmet; with him enters Maurice, followed by Rudigere, who is also armed, and keeps by himself, pacing to and fro at the bottom of the stage, whilst the others come forward.
Glot.
(speaking as he enters, loud and boastingly).
Ay, let him triumph in his paltry
honours,
Won by mere trick and accident. Good faith!
It were a shame to call it strength or skill,
Were it not, Rudigere?

[Calling to Rudigere, who answers not.
Maur.
His brow is dark, his tongue is lock'd, my lord;
There come no words from him; he bears it not
So manfully as thou dost, noble Glottenbal.

Glot.
Fy on't! I mind it not.

Maur.
And wherefore shouldst thou? This same Theobald,
Count and co-burgher—mixture most unseemly
Of base and noble,—know we not right well
What powers assist him? Mark'd you not, my lord,
How he did turn him to the witchy north,
When first he mounted; making his fierce steed,
That paw'd and rear'd and shook its harness'd neck
In generous pride, bend meekly to the earth
Its maned crest, like one who made obeisance?

Glot.
Ha! didst thou really see it?

Maur.
Yes, brave Glottenbal,
I did right truly; and besides myself,
Many observ'd it.

Glot.
Then 'tis manifest
How all this foil hath been. Who e'er before
Saw one with such advantage of the field,
Lose it so shamefully? By my good fay!
Barring foul play and other dev'lish turns,
I'd keep my courser's back with any lord,
Or knight, or squire, that e'er bestrode a steed.
Thinkst thou not, honest Maurice, that I could?

Maur.
Who doubts it, good my lord? This Falkenstein
Is but a clown to you.

Glot.
Well let him boast.
Boasting I scorn; but I will shortly show him
What these good arms, with no foul play against them,
Can honestly achieve.

Maur.
Yes, good my lord; but choose you well your day:
A moonless Friday luck did never bring
To honest combatant.

Glot.
Ha! blessing on thee! I ne'er thought of this:
Now it is clear how our mischance befell.
Be sure thou tell to every one thou meetst,
Friday and a dark moon suit Theobald.
Ho there! Sir Rudigere! hearst thou not this?

Rud.
(as he goes off, aside to Maur.)
Flatter the fool awhile and let me go,
I cannot join thee now.

[Exit.
Glot.
(looking after Rud.)
Is he so crestfallen?

Maur.
He lacks your noble spirit.

Glot.
Fye upon't!
I heed it not. Yet, by my sword and spurs!
'Twas a foul turn, that for my rival earn'd
A branch of victory from Orra's hand.

Maur.
Ay, foul indeed! My blood boil'd high to see it.
Look where he proudly comes.

Enter Theobald armed, with attendants, having a green sprig stuck in his helmet.
Glot.
(going up to Theobald).
Comest thou to face me so? Audacious burgher!
The Lady Orra's favour suits thee not,
Though for a time thou hast upon me gain'd
A seeming 'vantage.

Theo.
A seeming 'vantage!—Then it is not true,
That thou, unhors'd, layst rolling in the dust,
Asking for quarter?—Let me crave thy pardon;
Some strange delusion hung upon our sight
That we believed it so.

Glot.
Off with thy taunts!
And pull that sprig from its audacious perch:
The favour of a dame too high for thee.

Theo.
Too high indeed; and hadst thou also added,
Too good, too fair, I had assented to it.
Yet, be it known unto your courteous worth,
That were this spring a queen's gift, or receiv'd
From the brown hand of some poor mountain maid;
Yea, or bestow'd upon my rambling head,
As in the hairy sides of browsing kid
The wild rose sticks a spray, unpriz'd, unbidden,
I would not give it thee.

Glot.
Dost thou so face me out? Then I will have it.

[Snatching at it with rage.
Enter Hartman.
Hart.
(separating them).
What! Malice! after fighting in the lists
As noble courteous knights!

Glot.
(to Hartman).
Go, paltry banneret! Such friends as thou
Become such lords as he, whose ruin'd state
Seeks the base fellowship of restless burghers;
Thinking to humble still, with envious spite,
The great and noble houses of the land.
I know ye well, and I defy you both,
With all your damned witchery to boot.

[Exit grumbling, followed by Maurice, &c. Manent Theopald and Hartman.
Theo.
How fierce the creature is, and full of folly!
Like a shent cur to his own door retired,
That bristles up his furious back, and there
Each passenger annoys.—And this is he,
Whom sordid and ambitious Hughobert,
The guardian in the selfish father sunk,
Destines for Orra's husband.—O foul shame!
The carrion-crow and royal eagle join'd,
Make not so cross a match.—But thinkst thou, Hartman,
She will submit to it?

Hart.
That may be as thou pleasest, Falkenstein.

Theo.
Away with mockery!

Hart.
I mock thee not.

Theo.
Nay, banneret, thou dost, Saving this favour,
Which every victor in these listed combats
From ladies' hands receives, nor then regards
As more than due and stated courtesy,
She ne'er hath honour'd me with word or look
Such hope to warrant.

Hart.
Wait not thou for looks.

Theo.
Thou wouldst not have me to a dame like this,
With rich domains and titled rights encompass'd,
These simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear,
My barren hills and ruin'd tower present,
And say, “Accept—these will I nobly give
In fair exchange for thee and all thy wealth.”
No, Rudolph Hartman, woo the maid thyself,
If thou hast courage for it.

Hart.
Yes, Theobald of Falkenstein, I will,
And win her too; but all for thy behoof.
And when I do present, as thou hast said,
Those simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear,
Adding thy barren hills and ruin'd tower,
With some few items more of gen'rous worth,
And native sense and manly fortitude,
I'll give her in return for all that she
Or any maid can in such barter yield,
Its fair and ample worth.

Theo.
So dost thou reckon.

Hart.
And so will Orra. Do not shake thy head.
I know the maid: for still she has receiv'd me
As one who knew her noble father well,
And in the bloody field in which he died
Fought by his side, with kind familiarity:
And her stern guardian, viewing these grey hairs
And this rough visage with no jealous eye
Hath still admitted it.—I'll woo her for thee.

Theo.
I do in truth believe thou meanst me well.

Hart.
And this is all thou sayst? Cold frozen words!
What has bewitch'd thee, man? Is she not fair?

Theo.
O fair indeed as woman need be form'd
To please and be belov'd! Though, to speak honestly,
I've fairer seen; yet such a form as Orra's
For ever in my busy fancy dwells,
Whene'er I think of wiving my lone state.
It is not this; she has too many lures;
Why wilt thou urge me on to meet her scorn?
I am not worthy of her.

Hart.
(pushing him away with gentle anger).
Go to! I praised thy modesty short-wnile,
And now with dull and senseless perseverance,
Thon wouldst o'erlay me with it. Go thy ways!
If through thy fault, thus shrinking from the onset,
She should with this untoward cub be match'd,
'Twill haunt thy conscience like a damning sin,
And may it gnaw thee shrewdly!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A small apartment in the castle. Enter Rudigere musing gloomily, and muttering to himself some time before he speaks aloud.
Rud.
No, no; it is to formless air dissolv'd,
This cherish'd hope, this vision of my brain!
[Pacing to and fro, and then stopping and musing as before.
I daily stood contrasted in her sight
With an ungainly fool; and when she smiled,
Methought—But wherefore still upon this thought,
Which was perhaps but a delusion then,
Brood I with ceaseless torment? Never, never!
O never more on me, from Orra's eye,
Approving glance shall light, or gentle look!
This day's disgrace mars all my goodly dreams.
My path to greatness is at once shut up.
Still in the dust my grov'ling fortune lies.
[Striking his breast in despair.
Tame thine aspiring spirit, luckless wretch!
There is no hope for thee!
And shall I tame it? No, by saints and devils!
The laws have cast me off from every claim
Of house and kindred, and within my veins
Turn'd noble blood to baseness and reproach:
I'll cast them off: why should they be to me
A bar, and no protection?
[Pacing again to and fro, and muttering low for some time before he speaks aloud.
Ay; this may still within my toils enthral her;
This is the secret weakness of her mind
On which I'll clutch my hold.

Enter Cathrina behind him, laying her hand upon him.
Cath.
Ha! speakst thou to thyself?

Rud.
(starting).
I did not speak.

Cath.
Thou didst; thy busy mind gave sound to thoughts
Which thou didst utter with a thick harsh voice,
Like one who speaks in sleep. Tell me their meaning.

Rud.
And dost thou so presume? Be wise; be humble.
[After a pause.
Has Orra oft of late requested thee
To tell her stories of the restless dead;
Of spectres rising at the midnight watch
By the lone trav'ller's bed?

Cath.
Wherefore of late dost thou so oft inquire
Of what she says and does?

Rud.
Be wise, and answer what I ask of thee;
This is thy duty now.

Cath.
Alas, alas! I know that one false step
Has o'er me set a stern and ruthless master.

Rud.
No, madam; 'tis thy grave and virtuous seeming;
Thy saint-like carriage, rigid and demure,
On which thy high repute so long has stood,
Endowing thee with right of censorship
O'er every simple maid, whose cheerful youth
Wears not so thick a mask, that o'er thee sets
This ruthless master. Hereon rests my power:
I might expose, and therefore I command thee.

Cath.
Hush, hush! approaching steps!
They'll find me here!
I'll do whate'er thou wilt.

Rud.
It is but Maurice: hie thee to thy closet,
Where I will shortly come to thee. Be thou
My faithful agent in a weighty matter,
On which I now am bent, and I will prove
Thy stay and shelter from the world's contempt.

Cath.
Maurice to find me here! Where shall I hide me?

Rud.
Nowhere, but boldly pass him as he enters.
I'll find some good excuse; he will be silent:
He is my agent also.

Cath.
Dost thou trust him?

Rud.
Avarice his master is, as shame is thine:
Therefore I trust to deal with both.—Away!

Enter Maurice, passing Cathrina as she goes out.
Maur.
What, doth the grave and virtuous Cathrina
Vouchsafe to give thee of her company?

Rud.
Yes, rigid saint! she has bestow'd upon me
Some grave advice to bear with pious meekness
My late discomfiture.

Maur.
Ay, and she call'd it,
I could be sworn! heaven's judgment on thy pride.

Rud.
E'en so: thou'st guess'd it.—Shall we to the ramparts
And meet the western breeze?

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A spacious apartment. Enter Hughobert and Urston.
Hugh.
(speaking with angry gesticulation as he enters).
I feed and clothe these drones, and in return
They cheat, deceive, abuse me; nay, belike,
Laugh in their sleeve the while. By their advice,
This cursed tournay I proclaim'd; for still
They puff'd me up with praises of my son—
His grace, his skill in arms, his horsemanship—
Count Falkenstein to him was but a clown—
And so in Orra's eyes to give him honour,
Full surely did I think—I'll hang them all:
I'll starve them in a dungeon shut from light:
I'll heap my boards no more with dainty fare
To feed false flatterers.

Urst.
That indeed were wise:
But art thou sure, when men shall speak the truth,
That thou wilt feed them for it? I but hinted
In gentle words to thee, that Glottenbal
Was praised with partial or affected zeal,
And thou receiv'dst it angrily.

Hugh.
Ay, true indeed: but thou didst speak of him
As one bereft of all capacity.
Now though, God wot! I look on his defects
With no blind love, and even in my ire
Will sometimes call him fool; yet ne'ertheless,
He still has parts and talents, though obscur'd
By some untoward failings.—Heaven be praised!
He wants not strength at least and well turn'd limbs,
Had they but taught him how to use them. Knaves!
They have neglected him. Enter Glottenbal, who draws back on seeing his father.

Advance, young sir: art thou afraid of me,
That thus thou shrinkest like a skulking thief
To make disgrace the more apparent on thee?

Glot.
Yes, call it then disgrace, or what you please;
Had not my lance's point somewhat awry
Glanced on his shield—

Hugh.
E'en so; I doubt it not;
Thy lance's point, and every thing about thee
Hath glanced awry. Go, rid my house, I say,
Of all those feasting flatterers that deceive thee;
They harbour here no more: dismiss them quickly.

Glot.
Do it yourself, my lord; you are, I trow,
Angry enough to do it sharply.

Hugh.
(turning to Urston).
Faith!
He gibes me fairly here; there's reason in't;
Fools speak not thus. (To Glottenbal.)
Go to ! if I am angry,
Thou art a graceless son to tell me so.

Glot.
Have you not bid me still to speak the truth?

Hugh.
(to Urston).
Again thou hearst he makes an apt reply.

Urst.
He wants not words.

Hugh.
Nor meaning neither, father. Enter Eleanora.

Well, dame; where hast thou been?

El.
I came from Orra.

Hugh.
Hast thou been pleading in our son's excuse?
And how did she receive it?

El.
I tried to do it, but her present humour
Is jest and merriment. She is behind me,
Stopping to stroke a hound, that in the corridor
Came to her fawningly to be caress'd.

Glot.
(listening).
Ay, she is coming; light and quick her steps;
So sound they when her spirits are unruly:
But I am bold; she shall not mock me now. Enter Orra, tripping gaily, and playing with the folds of her scarf.

Methinks you trip it briskly, gentle dame.

Orra.
Does it offend you, noble knight?

Glot.
Go to!
I know your meaning. Wherefore smile you so?

Orra.
Because, good sooth! with tired and aching sides
I have not power to laugh.

Glot.
Full well I know why thou so merry art.
Thou thinkst of him to whom thou gav'st that sprig
Of hopeful green, his rusty casque to grace,
While at thy feet his honour'd glave he laid.

Orra.
Nay, rather say, of him, who at my feet,
From his proud courser's back, more gallantly
Laid his most precious self: then stole away,
Through modesty, unthank'd, nor left behind
Of all his gear that flutter'd in the dust,
Or glove, or band, or fragment of torn hose,
For dear remembrance-sake, that in my sleeve
I might have placed it. O! thou wrongst me much,
To think my merriment a ref'rence hath
To any one but him.

(Laughing.)
El.
Nay, Orra; these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter,
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has low'r'd of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem and strange.

Orra.
O nothing strange, my gentle Eleanora!
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud
In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day,
Shiver in silv'ry brightness:
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake:
Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods,
Give to the parting of a wintry sun
One hasty glance in mockery of the night
Closing in darkness round it? — Gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday,
And may be so to-morrow.

Glot.
And wherefore art thou sad, unless it is
From thine own wayward humour? Other dames,
Were they so courted, would be gay and happy.

Orra.
Wayward it needs must be, since I am sad
When such perfection woos me.
Pray, good Glottenbal,
How didst thou learn with such a wondrous grace
So high in air to toss thine armed heels,
And clutch with outspread hands the slipp'ry sand?
I was the more amaz'd at thy dexterity,
As this, of all thy many gallant feats
Before-hand promised, most modestly
Thou didst forbear to mention.

Glot.
Gibe away!
I care not for thy gibing. With fair lists,
And no black arts against me—

Hugh.
(advancing angrily from the bottom of the stage to Glottenbal).
Hold thy peace!
(To Orra.)
And, madam, be at least somewhat restrain'd
In your unruly humour.

Orra.
Pardon, my lord; I knew not you were near me.
My humour is unruly; with your leave,
I will retire till I have curb'd it better.
(To Eleanora.)
I would not lose your company, sweet countess.

El.
We'll go together, then.

[Exeunt Orra and Eleanora. Manet Hughobert; who paces angrily about the stage, while Glottenbal stands on the front, thumping his legs with his sheathed rapier.
Hugh.
There is no striving with a forward girl,
Nor pushing on a fool. My harass'd life
Day after day more irksome grows. Curs'd bane!
I'll toil no more for this untoward match.

Enter Rudigere, stealing behind, and listening.
Rud.
You are disturb'd, my lord.

Hugh.
What, is it thou? I am disturb'd in sooth.

Rud.
Ay, Orra has been here; and some light words
Of girlish levity have mov'd you. How!
Toil for this match no more! What else remains,
If this should be abandon'd, noble Aldenberg,
That can be worth your toil?

Hugh.
I'll match the cub elsewhere.

Rud.
What call ye matching?

Hugh.
Surely for him some other virtuous maid
Of high descent, though not so richly dower'd,
May be obtain'd.

Rud.
Within your walls, perhaps,
Some waiting gentlewoman, who perchance
May be some fifty generations back
Descended from a king, he will himself
Ere long obtain, without your aid, my lord.

Hugh.
Thou mak'st me mad! the dolt! the senseless dolt!
What can I do for him? I cannot force
A noble maid entrusted to my care:
I, the sole guardian of her helpless youth!

Rud.
That were indeed unfit; but there are means
To make her yield consent.

Hugh.
Then by my faith, good friend, I'll call thee wizard,
If thou canst find them out. What means already,
Short of compulsion, have we left untried?
And now the term of my authority
Wears to its close.

Rud.
I know it well; and therefore powerful means,
And of quick operation, must be sought.

Hugh.
Speak plainly to me.

Rud.
I've watch'd her long.
I've seen her cheek, flush'd with the rosy glow
Of jocund spirits, deadly pale become
At tale of nightly sprite or apparition,
Such as all hear, 'tis true, with greedy ears,
Saying, “Saints save us!” but forget as quickly.
I've marked her long; she has with all her shrewdness
And playful merriment, a gloomy fancy,
That broods within itself on fearful things.

Hugh.
And what doth this avail us?

Rud.
Hear me out.
Your ancient castle in the Suabian forest
Hath, as too well you know, belonging to it,
Or false or true, frightful reports. There hold her
Strictly confin'd in sombre banishment;
And doubt not but she will, ere long, full gladly
Her freedom purchase at the price you name.

Hugh.
On what pretence can I confine her there?
It were most odious.

Rud.
Can pretence be wanting?
Has she not favour shown to Theobald,
Who in your neighbourhood, with his sworn friend
The Banneret of Basle, suspiciously
Prolongs his stay? A poor and paltry count,
Unmect to match with her. And want ye then
A reason for removing her with speed
To some remoter quarter? Out upon it!
You are too scrupulous.

Hugh.
Thy scheme is good, but cruel.

[Glottenbal has been drawing nearer to them, and attending to the last part of their discourse.
Glot.
O much I like it, dearly wicked Rudigere!
She then will turn her mind to other thoughts
Than scornful gibes at me.

Hugh.
I to her father swore I would protect her:
I must fulfil his will.

Rud.
And, in that will, her father did desire
She might be match'd with this your only son:
Therefore you're firmly bound all means to use
That may the end attain.

Hugh.
Walk forth with me, we'll talk of this at large.

[Exeunt Hugh. and Rud. Manet Glottenbal, who comes forward from the bottom of the stage with the action of a knight advancing to the charge.
Glot.
Yes, thus it is; I have the sleight o't now;
And were the combat yet to come, I'd show them
I'm not a whit behind the bravest knight,
Cross luck excepted.

Enter Maurice.
Maur.
My lord, indulge us of your courtesy.

Glot.
In what, I pray?

Maur.
Did not Fernando tell you?
We are all met within our social bower;
And I have wager'd on your head, that none
But you alone, within the count's domains,
Can to the bottom drain the chased horn.
Come do not linger here when glory calls you.

Glot.
Thinkst thou that Theobald could drink so stoutly?

Maur.
He, paltry chief! he herds with sober burghers;
A goblet, half its size, would conquer him.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A garden with trees, and shrubs, &c. Orra, Theobald, and Hartman, are discovered in a shaded walk at the bottom of the stage, speaking in dumb show, which they cross, disappearing behind the trees; and are presently followed by Cathrina and Alice, who continue walking there. Orra, Theo., and Hart. then appear again, entering near the front of the stage.
Orra
(talking to Hart. as she enters).
And so, since fate has made me, woe the day!
That poor and good-for-nothing, helpless being.
Woman yclept, I must consign myself
With all my lands and rights into the hands
Of some proud man, and say, “Take all, I pray,
And do me in return the grace and favour
To be my master.”

Hart.
Nay, gentle lady, you constrain my words.
And load them with a meaning harsh and foreign
To what they truly bear.—A master! No;
A valiant gentle mate, who in the field
Or in the council will maintain your right:
A noble, equal partner.

Orra
(shaking her head).
Well I know,
In such a partnership, the share of power
Allotted to the wife. See, noble Falkenstein
Hath silent been the while, nor spoke one word
In aid of all your specious arguments.
(To Theo.)
What's your advice, my lord?

Theo.
Ah, noble Orra,
'Twere like self-murder to give honest counsel;
Then urge me not. I frankly do confess
I should be more heroic than I am.

Orra.
Right well I see thy head approves my plan,
And by-and-bye so will thy gen'rous heart.
In short, I would, without another's leave,
Improve the low condition of my peasants,
And cherish them in peace. E'en now, methinks,
Each little cottage of my native vale
Swells out its earthen sides, up-heaves its roof,
Like to a hillock mov'd by lab'ring mole,
And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its walls,
Roses and ev'ry gay and fragrant plant,
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower:
Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell.
[Looking playfully through her fingers like a show-glass.
Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed
The flowers grow not too close, and there within
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk;—
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
Their very forms distinctly?

Theo.
Distinctly; and most beautiful the sight!
A sight which sweetly stirreth in the heart
Feelings that gladden and ennoble it,
Dancing like sun-beams on the rippled sea;
A blessed picture! Foul befall the man
Whose narrow, selfish soul would shade or mar it!

Hart.
To this right heartily I say Amen!
But if there be a man whose gen'rous soul
[Turning to Orra.
Like ardour fills; who would with thee pursue
Thy gen'rous plan; who would his harness don—

Orra
(putting her hand on him in gentle interruption).
Nay, valiant banneret, who would, an't please you,
His harness doff: all feuds, all strife forbear,
All military rivalship, all lust
Of added power, and live in steady quietness,
A mild and fost'ring lord. Know you of one
That would so share my task?—You answer not;
And your brave friend, methinks, casts on the ground
A thoughtful look: wots he of such a lord?

[To Theo.
Theo.
Wot I of such a lord? No, noble Orra,
I do not; nor does Hartman, though perhaps
His friendship may betray his judgment. No;
None such exist: we are all fierce, contentious,
Restless and proud, and prone to vengeful feuds;
The very distant sound of war excites us,
Like the curb'd courser list'ning to the chase,
Who paws, and frets, and bites the rein. Trust none
To cross thy gentle, but most princely purpose,
Who hath on head a circling helmet worn,
Or ever grasp'd a glave.—But ne'ertheless
There is—I know a man.— Might I be bold?

Orra.
Being so honest, boldness is your right.

Theo.
Permitted then, I'll say, I know a man,
Though most unworthy Orra's lord to be,
Who, as her champion, friend, devoted soldier,
Might yet commend himself; and, so received,
Who would at her command, for her defence
His sword right proudly draw. An honour'd sword,
Like that which at the gate of Paradise
From steps profane the blessed region guarded.

Orra.
Thanks to the gen'rous knight! I also know
The man thou wouldst commend; and when my state
Such service needeth, to no sword but his
Will I that service owe.

Theo.
Most noble Orra! greatly is he honour'd;
And will not murmur that a higher wish,
Too high, and too presumptuous, is repress'd.

[Kissing her hand with great respect.
Orra.
Nay, Rudolph Hartman, clear that cloudy brow,
And look on Falkenstein and on myself
As two co-burghers of thy native city
(For such I mean ere long to be), and claiming
From thee, as cadets from an elder born,
Thy cheering equal kindness.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
The count is now at leisure to receive
The lord of Falkenstein, and Rudolph Hartman.

Hart.
We shall attend him shortly. [Exit servant.
(Aside to Theo.)

Must we now
Our purpos'd suit to some pretended matter
Of slighter import change?

Theo.
(to Hart. aside).
Assuredly.—
Madam, I take my leave with all devotion.

Hart.
I with all friendly wishes.

[Exeunt Theo. and Hart. Cathrina and Alice now advance through the shrubs, &c. at the bottom of the stage, while Orra remains, wrapped in thought, on the front.
Cath.
Madam, you're thoughtful; something occupies
Your busy mind.

Orra.
What was't we talk'd of, when the worthy banneret
With Falkenstein upon our converse broke?

Cath.
How we should spend our time, when in your castle
You shall maintain your state in ancient splendour,
With all your vassals round you.

Orra.
Ay, so it was.

Al.
And you did say, my lady,
It should not be a cold unsocial grandeur:
That you would keep, the while, a merry house.

Orra.
O doubt it not! I'll gather round my board
All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks,
And noble travellers, and neighb'ring friends,
Both young and old. Within my ample hall,
The worn-out man of arms (of whom too many,
Nobly descended, rove like reckless vagrants
From one proud chieftain's castle to another,
Half chid, half honour'd) shall o' tiptoe tread,
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats
Of days gone by.—Music we'll have; and oft
The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors
Shall, thund'ring loud, strike on the distant ear
Of'nighted trav'llers, who shall gladly bend
Their doubtful footsteps tow'rds the cheering din.
Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd, and demure
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels?

Al.
O passing well! 'twill be a pleasant life;
Free from all stern subjection; blithe and fanciful;
We'll do whate'er we list.

Cath.
That right and prudent is, I hope thou meanest.

Al.
Why ever so suspicious and so strict?
How couldst thou think I had another meaning?
(To Orra.)
And shall we ramble in the woods full oft
With hound and horn?—that is my dearest joy.

Orra.
Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do not doubt
This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season
Shall have its suited pastime: even Winter
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow,
And chok'd up valleys from our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest, nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaking,
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

Cath.
And stories too, I ween, of ghosts and spirits,
And things unearthly, that on Michael's eve
Rise from the yawning tombs.

Orra.
Thou thinkest then one night o'th' year is truly
More horrid than the rest.

Cath.
Perhaps 'tis only silly superstition:
But yet it is well known the count's brave father
Would rather on a glacier's point have lain,
By angry tempests rock'd, than on that night
Sunk in a downy couch in Brunier's castle.

Orra.
How, pray? What fearful thing did scare him so?

Cath.
Hast thou ne'er heard the story of Count Hugo,
His ancestor, who slew the hunter-knight?

Orra
(eagerly).
Tell it, I pray thee.

Al.
Cathrina, tell it not; it is not right:
Such stories ever change her cheerful spirits
To gloomy pensiveness; her rosy bloom
To the wan colour of a shrouded corse.
(To Orra.)
What pleasure is there, lady, when thy hand,
Cold as the valley's ice, with hasty grasp
Seizes on her who speaks, while thy shrunk form
Cow'ring and shiv'ring stands with keen turn'd ear
To catch what follows of the pausing tale?

Orra.
And let me cow'ring stand, and be my touch
The valley's ice: there is a pleasure in it.

Al.
Sayst thou indeed there is a pleasure in it?

Orra.
Yea, when the cold blood shoots through every vein:
When every pore upon my shrunken skin
A knotted knoll becomes, and to mine ears
Strange inward sounds awake, and to mine eyes
Rush stranger tears, there is a joy in fear.
[Catching hold of Cathrina.
Tell it, Cathrina, for the life within me
Beats thick, and stirs to hear
He slew the hunter-knight?

Cath.
Since I must tell it, then, the story goes
That grim Count Aldenberg, the ancestor
Of Hughobert, and also of yourself,
From hatred or from envy, to his castle
A noble knight, who hunted in the forest,
Well the Black Forest named, basely decoy'd,
And there, within his chamber, murder'd him—

Orra.
Merciful Heaven! and in my veins there runs
A murderer's blood. Saidst thou not, murder'd him?

Cath.
Ay; as he lay asleep, at dead of night.

Orra.
A deed most horrible!

Cath.
It was on Michael's eve; and since that time,
The neighb'ring hinds oft hear the midnight yell
Of spectre-hounds, and see the spectre shapes
Of huntsmen on their sable steeds, with still
A noble hunter riding in their van
To cheer the chase, shown by the moon's pale beams,
When wanes its horn in long October nights.

Orra.
This hath been often seen?

Cath.
Ay, so they say.
But, as the story goes, on Michael's eve,
And on that night alone of all the year,
The hunter-knight himself, having a horn
Thrice sounded at the gate, the castle enters;
And, in the very chamber where he died,
Calls on his murd'rer, or in his default
Some true descendant of his house, to loose
His spirit from its torment; for his body
Is laid i' the earth unbless'd, and none can tell
The spot of its interment.

Orra.
Call on some true descendant of his race!
It were to such a fearful interview.
But in that chamber, on that night alone—
Hath he elsewhere to any of the race
Appeared? or hath he power—

Al.
Nay, nay, forbear:
See how she looks. (To Orra.)
I fear thou art not well.

Orra.
There is a sickly faintness come upon me.

Al.
And didst thou say there is a joy in fear?

Orra.
My mind of late has strange impressionsg ta'en.
I know not how it is.

Al.
A few nights since,
Stealing o' tiptoe, softly through your chamber,
Towards my own—

Orra.
O heaven defend us! didst thou see aught there?

Al.
Only your sleeping self. But you appear'd
Distress'd and troubled in your dreams; and once
I thought to wake you ere I left the chamber,
But I forbore.

Orra.
And glad I am thou didst.
It is not dreams I fear; for still with me
There is an indistinctness o'er them cast,
Like the dull gloom of misty twilight, where
Before mine eyes pass all incongruous things,
Huge, horrible, and strange, on which I stare
As idiots do upon this changeful world,
With nor surprise nor speculation. No;
Dreams I fear not: it is the dreadful waking,
When, in deep midnight stillness, the roused fancy
Takes up th' imperfect shadows of its sleep,
Like a marr'd speech snatch'd from a bungler's mouth,
Shaping their forms distinctively and vivid
To visions horrible:—this is my bane;—
It is the dreadful waking that I fear.

Al.
Well, speak of other things. There in good time
Your ghostly father comes with quicken'd steps,
Like one who bears some tidings good or ill.
Heaven grant they may be good!

Enter Urston.
Orra.
Father, you seem disturb'd.

Urst.
Daughter, I am in truth disturb'd. The count
All o' the sudden, being much enraged
That Falkenstein still lingers near these walls,
Resolves to send thee hence, to be awhile
In banishment detain'd, till on his son
Thou lookst with better favour.

Orra.
Ay, indeed!
That is to say perpetual banishment:
A sentence light or heavy, as the place
Is sweet or irksome he would send me to.

Urst.
He will contrive to make it, doubt him not,
Irksome enough. Therefore I would advise thee
To feign at least, but for a little time,
A disposition to obey his wishes.
He's stern, but not relentless; and his dame,
The gentle Eleanor, will still befriend you,
When fit occasion serves.

Orra.
What saidst thou, father?
To feign a disposition to obey!
I did mistake thy words.

Urst.
No, gentle daughter;
So press'd, thou mayest feign and yet be blameless.
A trusty guardian's faith with thee he holds not,
And therefore thou art free to meet his wrongs
With what defence thou hast.

Orra
(proudly).
Nay, pardon me; I, with an unshorn crown,
Must hold the truth in plain simplicity,
And am in nice distinctions most unskilful.

Urst.
Lady, have I deserv'd this sharpness? oft
Thine infant hand has strok'd this shaven crown:
Thou'st ne'er till now reproach'd it.

Orra
(bursting into tears).
Pardon, O pardon me, my gentle Urston!
Pardon a wayward child, whose eager temper
Doth sometimes mar the kindness of her heart.
Father, am I forgiven?

(Hanging on him.)
Urst.
Thou art, thou art:
Thou art forgiven; more than forgiven, my child.

Orra.
Then lead me to the count, I will myself
Learn his stern purpose.

Urst.
In the hall he is,
Seated in state, and waiting to receive you.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A spacious apartment, or baron's hall, with a chair of state. Hughobert, Eleanora, and Glottenbal enter near the front, speaking as they enter; and afterwards enter Vassals and Attendants, who range themselves at the bottom of the stage.
Hugh.
Cease, dame! I will not hear; thou striv'st in vain
With thy weak pleadings. Orra hence must go
Within the hour, unless she will engage
Her plighted word to marry Glottenbal.

Glot.
Ay, and a mighty hardship, by the mass!

Hugh.
I've summon'd her in solemn form before me,
That these my vassals should my act approve,
Knowing my right of guardianship; and also
That her late father, in his dying moments,
Did will she should be married to my son;
Which will, she now must promise to obey,
Or take the consequence.

El.
But why so hasty?

Hugh.
Why, sayst thou? Falkenstein still in these parts
Lingers with sly intent. Even now he left me,
After an interview of small importance,
Which he and Hartman, as a blind pretence
For seeing Orra, formally requested.
I say again she must forthwith obey me,
Or take the consequence of wayward will.

El.
Nay, not for Orra do I now entreat
So much as for thyself. Bethink thee well
What honour thou shalt have, when it is known
Thy ward from thy protecting roof was sent;
Thou who shouldst be to her a friend, a father.

Hugh.
But do I send her unprotected? No!
Brave Rudigere conducts her with a band
Of trusty spearmen. In her new abode
She will be safe as here.

El.
Ha! Rudigere!
Putst thou such trust in him? Alas, my lord!
His heart is full of cunning and deceit.
Wilt thou to him the flower of all thy race
Rashly intrust? O be advised, my lord!

Hugh.
Thy ghostly father tells thee so, I doubt not.
Another priest confesses Rudigere,
And Urston likes him not. But canst thou think,
With aught but honest purpose, he would chose
From all her women the severe Cathrina,
So strictly virtuous, for her companion?
This puts all doubt to silence. Say no more,
Else I shall think thou pleadst against my son,
More with a step-dame's than a mother's feelings.

Glot.
Ay, marry does she, father! And forsooth!
Regards me as a fool. No marvel then
That Orra scorns me; being taught by her,—
How should she else?—So to consider me!

Hugh.
(to Glottenbal).
Tut! hold thy tongue.

El.
He wrongs me much, my lord.

Hugh.
No more, for here she comes.

Enter Orra, attended by Urston, Alice and Cathrina, whilst Hughobert seats himself in his chair of state, the vassals, &c. ranging themselves on each side.
Hugh.
(to Orra).
Madam and ward, placed under mine authority,
And to my charge committed by my kinsman,
Ulric of Aldenberg, thy noble father:
Having all gentle means essay'd to win thee
To the fulfilment of his dying will,
That did decree his heiress should be married
With Glottenbal my heir; I solemnly
Now call upon thee, ere that rougher means
Be used for this good end, to promise truly
Thou wilt, within a short and stated time,
Before the altar give thy plighted faith
To this my only son. I wait thine answer.
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou do this?

Orra.
Count of the same, my lord and guardian,
I will not.

Hugh.
Have a care, thou froward maid!
'Tis thy last opportunity: ere long
Thou shalt, within a dreary dwelling pent,
Count thy dull hours, told by the dead man's watch,
And wish thou hadst not been so proudly wilful.

Orra.
And let my dull hours by the dead man's watch
Be told; yea, make me too the dead man's mate,
My dwelling place the nailed coffin; still
I would prefer it to the living lord
Your goodness offers me.

Hugh.
Art thou bewitch'd?
Is he not young, well featured and well form'd?
And dost thou put him in thy estimation
With bones and sheeted clay?
Beyond endurance is thy stubborn spirit.
Right well thy father knew that all thy sex
Stubborn and headstrong are; therefore, in wisdom,
He vested me with power that might compel thee
To what he will'd should be.

Orra.
O not in wisdom!
Say rather in that weak, but gen'rous faith,
Which said to him, the cope of heaven would fall
And smother in its cradle his swath'd babe,
Rather than thou. his mate in arms, his kinsman,
Who by his side in many a field had fought,
Shouldst take advantage of his confidence
For sordid ends.—
My brave and noble father!
A voice comes from thy grave and cries against it,
And bids me to be bold. Thine awful form
Rises before me,—and that look of anguish
On thy dark brow!—O no! I blame thee not.

Hugh.
Thou seemst beside thyself with such wild gestures
And strangely-flashing eyes. Repress these fancies,
And to plain reason listen. Thou hast said,
For sordid ends I have advantage ta'en.
Since thy brave father's death, by war and compact,
Thou of thy lands hast lost a third; whilst I,
By happy fortune, in my heir's behalf,
Have doubled my domains to what they were
When Ulric chose him as a match for thee.

Orra.
O, and what speaketh this, but that my father
Domains regarded not; and thought a man
Such as the son should be of such a man
As thou to him appear'dst, a match more honourable
Than one of ampler state. Take thou from Glottenbal
The largely added lands of which thou boastest,
And put, in lieu thereof, into his stores
Some weight of manly sense and gen'rous worth,
And I will say thou keepst faith with thy friend:
But as it is, although a king's domains
Increas'd thy wealth, thou poorly wouldst deceive him.

Hugh.
(rising from his chair in anger).
Now, madam, be all counsel on this matter
Between us closed. Prepare thee for thy journey.

El.
Nay, good my lord! consider.

Hugh.
(to Eleanora).
What, again!
Have I not said thou hast an alien's heart
From me and mine. Learn to respect my will:
—Be silent, as becomes a youthful dame.

Urst.
For a few days may she not still remain?

Hugh.
No, priest; not for an hour. It is my pleasure
That she for Brunier's castle do set forth
Without delay.

Orra
(with a faint starting movement).
In Brunier's castle!

Hugh.
Ay;
And doth this change the colour of thy cheek,
And give thy alter'd voice a feebler sound?
[Aside to Glottenbal.
She shrinks, now to her, boy; this is thy time.

Glot.
(to Orra).
Unless thou wilt, thou needst not go at all.
There is full many a maiden would right gladly
Accept the terms we offer, and remain.
(A pause.)
Wilt thou not answer me?

Orra.
I heard thee not.—
I heard thy voice, but not thy words. What saidst thou?

Glot.
I say, there's many a maiden would right gladly
Accept the terms we offer, and remain.
The daughter of a king hath match'd ere now
With mine inferior. We are link'd together
As 'twere by right and natural property.
And as I've said before I say again,
I love thee too: what more couldst thou desire?

Orra.
I thank thee for thy courtship, though uncouth;
For it confirms my purpose: and my strength
Grows as thou speakst, firm like the deep-bas'd rock.
(To Hughobert).
Now for my journey when you will, my lord!
I'm ready.

Hugh.
Be it so! on thine own head
Rest all the blame!
[Going from her.
Perverse past all belief!
[Turning round to her sternly.
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou obey me?

Orra.
Count of that noble house, with all respect,
Again I say I will not.

[Exit Hughobert in anger, followed by Glottenbal, Urston, &c. Manent anly Eleanora, Cathrina, Alice, and Orra, who keeps up with stately pride till Hughobert and all attendants are gone out, and then throwing herself into the arms of Eleanora, gives vent to her feelings.
El.
Sweet Orra! be not so depress'd; thou goest
For a short term, soon to return again;
The banishment is mine, who stays behind.
But I will beg of heaven with ceaseless prayers
To have thee soon restored: and, when I dare,
Will plead with Hughobert in thy behalf;
He is not always stern.

Orra.
Thanks, gentle friend! Thy voice to me doth ring
Like the last tones of kindly nature; dearly
In my remembrance shall they rest.—What sounds,
What sights, what horrid intercourse I may,
Ere we shall meet again, be doom'd to prove,
High heaven alone doth know.—If that indeed
We e'er shall meet again!

[Falls on her neck and weeps.
El.
Nay, nay! come to my chamber. There awhile
Compose your spirits. Be not so depress'd. [Exeunt.
[Rudigere, who has appeared, during the last part of the above scene, at the bottom of the stage, half concealed, as if upon the watch, now comes forward, speaking as he advances.

Hold firm her pride till fairly from these walls
Our journey is begun; then fortune hail!
Thy favours are secured.
[Looking off the stage.
Ho, Maurice there!
Enter Maurice.
My faithful Maurice, I would speak with thee.
I leave thee here behind me; to thy care,
My int'rests I commit; be it thy charge
To counteract thy lady's influence,
Who will entreat her lord the term to shorten
Of Orra's absence, maiming thus my plan,
Which must, belike, have time to be effected.
Be vigilant, be artful; and be sure
Thy services I amply will repay.

Maur.
Ay, thou hast said so, and I have believ'd thee.

Rud.
And dost thou doubt?

Maur.
No; yet meantime, good sooth!
If somewhat of thy bounty I might finger,
'Twere well: I like to have some actual proof.
Didst thou not promise it?

Rud.
'Tis true I did,
But other pressing calls have drain'd my means.

Maur.
And other pressing calls my ebbing faith
May also drain, and change my promis'd purpose.

Rud.
Go to! I know thou art a greedy leech,
Though ne'ertheless thou lov'st me.
[Taking a small case from his pocket, which he opens.
Seest thou here?
I have no coin; but look upon these jewels:
I took them from a knight I slew in battle.
When I am Orra's lord, thou shalt receive,
Were it ten thousand crowns, whate'er their worth
Shall by a skilful lapidary be
In honesty esteem'd.

[Gives him the jewels.
Maur.
I thank thee, but methinks their lustre's dim.
I've seen the stones before upon thy breast
In gala days, but never heard thee boast
They were of so much value.

Rud.
I was too prudent: I had lost them else.
To no one but thyself would I entrust
The secret of their value.

Enter Servant.
Serv.
Sir Rudigere, the spearmen are without,
Waiting your further orders, for the journey.

Rud.
(to servant).
I'll come to them anon.
[Exit servant.
Before I go, I'll speak to thee again.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT III.

SCENE I

A forest with a half-ruined castle in the background, seen through the trees by moonlight. Franko and several Outlaws are discovered sitting on the ground, round a fire, with flagons, &c. by them, as if they had been drinking.
Franko
(to 1st out.).
How lik'st thou this, Fernando?

1st out.
Well sung i' faith! but serving ill our turn,
Who would all trav'llers and benighted folks
Scare from our precincts. Such sweet harmony
Will rather tempt invasion.

Franko.
Fear not, for mingled voices, heard afar,
Through glade and glen and thicket, stealing on
To distant list'ners, seem wild-goblin-sounds;
At which the lonely trav'ller checks his steed,
Pausing with long-drawn breath and keen-turn'd ear,
And twilight pilferers cast down in haste
Their ill-got burthens, while the homeward hind
Turns from his path, full many a mile about,
Through bog and mire to grope his blund'ring way.
Such, to the startled ear of superstition,
Were seraph's song, could we like seraphs sing.

Enter 2d outlaw, hastily.
2d out.
Disperse ye diff'rent ways: we are undone.

Franko.
How sayst thou, shrinking poltroon? we undone!
Outlaw'd and ruin'd men, who live by daring!

2d out.
A train of armed men, some noble dame
Escorting (so their scatter'd words discover'd
As, unperceiv'd, I hung upon their rear),
Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night
Within the castle.

Franko.
Some benighted travellers,
Bold from their numbers, or who ne'er have heard
The ghostly legend of this dreaded place.

1 out.
Let us keep close within our vaulted haunts;
The way to which is tangled and perplex'd,
And cannot be discover'd: with the morn
They will depart.

Franko.
Nay, by the holy mass! within those walls
Not for a night must trav'llers quietly rest,
Or few or many. Would we live securely,
We must uphold the terrors of the place:
Therefore, let us prepare our midnight rouse.
See, from the windows of the castle gleam
[Lights seen from the castle.
Quick passing lights, as though they moved within
In hurried preparation; and that bell,
[Bell heard.
Which from yon turret its shrill 'larum sends,
Betokens some unwonted stir. Come, hearts!
Be all prepared, before the midnight watch,
The fiend-like din of our infernal chace
Around the walls to raise.—Come; night advances.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Gothic room in the castle, with the stage darkened. Enter Cathrina, bearing a light, followed by Orra.
Orra
(catching her by the robe and pulling her back).
Advance no further: turn, I pray! This room
More dismal and more ghastly seems than that
Which we have left behind. Thy taper's light,
As thus aloft thou wav'st it to and fro,
The fretted ceiling gilds with feeble brightness;
While over-head its carved ribs glide past
Like edgy waves of a dark sea, returning
To an eclipsed moon its sullen sheen.

Cath.
To me it seems less dismal than the other.
See, here are chairs around the table set,
As if its last inhabitants had left it
Scarcely an hour ago.

[Setting the light upon the table.
Orra.
Alas! how many hours and years have past
Since human forms around this table sat,
Or lamp or taper on its surface gleam'd!
Methinks I hear the sound of time long past
Still murm'ring o'er us in the lofty void
Of those dark arches, like the ling'ring voices
Of those who long within their graves have slept.
It was their gloomy home; now it is mine. [Sits down, resting her arm upon the table, and covering her eyes with her hand.
Enter Rudigere, beckoning Cathrina to come to him; and speaks to her in a low voice at the corner of the stage.

Go and prepare thy lady's chamber; why
Dost thou for ever closely near her keep?

Cath.
She charged me so to do.

Rud.
I charge thee also
With paramount authority, to leave her:
I for awhile will take thy station here.
Thou art not mad? Thou dost not hesitate?

[Fixing his eyes on her with a fierce threatening look, from which she shrinks. Exit Cath.
Orra.
This was the home of bloody lawless power.
The very air rests thick and heavily
Where murder hath been done.
(Sighing heavily.)
There is a strange oppression in my breast:
Dost thou not feel a close unwholesome vapour?

Rud.
No; ev'ry air to me is light and healthful,
That with thy sweet and heavenly breath is mix'd.

Orra
(starting up).
Thou here! (Looking round.)
Cathrina gone?

Rud.
Does Orra fear to be alone with one,
Whose weal, whose being on her favour hangs?

Orra.
Retire, Sir Knight. I choose to be alone.

Rud.
And dost thou choose it, here, in such a place,
Wearing so near the midnight hour?—Alas!
How loath'd and irksome must my presence be!

Orra.
Dost thou deride my weakness?

Rud.
I deride it!
No, noble maid! say rather that from thee
I have a kindred weakness caught. In battle
My courage never shrank, as my arm'd heel
And crested helm do fairly testify:
But now when midnight comes, I feel by sympathy,
With thinking upon thee, fears rise within me
I never knew before.

Orra
(in a softened kindlier voice).
Ha! dost thou too
Such human weakness own?

Rud.
I plainly feel
We are all creatures, in the wakeful hour
Of ghastly midnight, form'd to cower together,
Forgetting all distinctions of thé day,
Beneath its awful and mysterious power.

[Stealing closer to her as he speaks, and putting his arms round her.
Orra
(breaking from him).
I pray thee hold thy parley further off:
Why dost thou press so near me?

Rud.
And art thou so offended, lovely Orra?
Ah! wherefore am I thus presumptuous deem'd?
The blood that fills thy veins enriches mine;
From the same stock we spring; though by that glance
Of thy disdainful eye, too well I see
My birth erroneously thou countest base.

Orra.
Erroneously!

Rud.
Yes, I will prove it so.
Longer I'll not endure a galling wrong
Which makes each word of tenderness that bursts
From a full heart, bold and presumptuous seem,
And severs us so far.

Orra.
No, subtile snake!
It is the baseness of thy selfish mind,
Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit,
That severs us so far, and shall do ever.

Rud.
Thou prov'st how far my passion will endure
Unjust reproaches from a mouth so dear.

Orra.
Out on hypocrisy! who but thyself
Did Hughobert advise to send me hither?
And who the jailor's hateful office holds
To make my thraldom sure?

Rud.
Upbraid me not for this: had I refused,
One less thy friend had ta'en th' ungracious task.
And, gentle Orra! dost thou know a man,
Who might in ward all that his soul holds dear
From danger keep, yet would the charge refuse,
For that strict right such wardship doth condemn?
O! still to be with thee; to look upon thee;
To hear thy voice, makes even this place of horrors,—
Where, as 'tis said, the spectre of a chief,
Slain by our common grandsire, haunts the night,
A paradise—a place where I could live
In penury and gloom, and be most bless'd.
Ah! Orra! if there's misery in thraldom,
Pity a wretch who breathes but in thy favour:
Who till he look'd upon that beauteous face,
Was free and happy.—Pity me or kill me!

[Kneeling and catching hold of her hand.
Orra.
Off, fiend! let snakes and vipers cling to me
So thou dost keep aloof.

Rud.
(rising indignantly).
And is my love with so much hatred met?
Madam, beware lest scorn like this should change me
E'en to the baleful thing your fears have fancied.

Orra.
Dar'st thou to threaten me?

Rud.
He, who is mad with love and gall'd with scorn,
Dares any thing.—But O! forgive such words
From one who rather, humbled at your feet,
Would of that gentleness, that gen'rous pity,
The native inmate of each female breast,
Receive the grace on which his life depends.
There was a time when thou didst look on me
With other eyes.

Orra.
Thou dost amaze me much.
Whilst I believ'd thou wert an honest man,
Being no fool, and an adventurous soldier,
I look'd upon thee with good-will; if more
Thou didst discover in my looks than this,
Thy wisdom with thine honesty, in truth,
Was fairly match'd.

Rud.
Madam, the proud derision of that smile
Deceives me not. It is the lord of Falkenstein,
Who better skill'd than I in tournay-war,
Though not in th' actual field more valiant found,
Engrosses now your partial thoughts. And yet
What may he boast which, in a lover's suit,
I may not urge? He's brave, and so am I.
In birth I am his equal; for my mother,
As I shall prove, was married to Count Albert,
My noble father, though for reasons tedious
Here to be stated, still their secret nuptials
Were unacknowledg'd, and on me hath fallen
A cruel stigma which degrades my fortunes.
But were I—O forgive th' aspiring thought!—
But were I Orra's lord, I should break forth
Like the unclouded sun, by all acknowledg'd
As ranking with the highest in the land.

Orra.
Do what thou wilt when thou art Orra's lord;
But being as thou art, retire and leave me:
I choose to be alone.

(Very proudly.)
Rud.
Then be it so.
Thy pleasure, mighty dame, I will not balk.
This night, to-morrow's night, and every night,
Shalt thou in solitude be left; if absence
Of human beings can secure it for thee.
[Pauses and looks on her, while she seems struck and disturbed.
It wears already on the midnight hour;
Good night!
[Pauses again, she still more disturbed.
Perhaps I understood too hastily
Commands you may retract.

Orra
(recovering her state).
Leave me, I say; that part of my commands
I never can retract.

Rud.
You are obey'd.

[Exit.
Orra
(paces up and down hastily for some time, then stops short, and after remaining a little while in a thoughtful posture).
Can spirit from the tomb, or fiend from hell,
More hateful, more malignant be than man—
Than villanous man? Although to look on such,
Yea, even the very thought of looking on them,
Makes natural blood to curdle in the veins,
And loosen'd limbs to shake,
There are who have endur'd the visitation
Of supernatural beings.—O forefend it!
I would close couch me to my deadliest foe
Rather than for a moment bear alone
The horrors of the sight.
Who's there? who's there?
[Looking round.
Heard I not voices near? That door ajar
Sends forth a cheerful light. Perhaps my women,
Who now prepare my chamber. Grant it be!

[Exit, running hastily to a door from which a light is seen.

SCENE III.

A chamber, with a small bed or couch in it. Enter Rudigere and Cathrina, wrangling together.
Rud.
I say begone, and occupy the chamber
I have appointed for thee: here I'm fix'd,
And here I pass the night.

Cath.
Thou saidst my chamber
Should be adjoining that which Orra holds?
I know thy wicked thoughts: they meditate
Some dev'lish scheme; but think not I'll abet it.

Rud.
Thou wilt not!—angry, restive, simple fool!
Dost thou stop short and say, “I'll go no further?”
Thou, whom concealed shame hath bound so fast,—
My tool,—my instrument?—Fulfil thy charge
To the full bent of thy commission, else
Thee, and thy bantling too, I'll from me cast
To want and infamy.

Cath.
O, shameless man!
Thou art the son of a degraded mother
As low as I am, yet thou hast no pity.

Rud.
Ay, and dost thou reproach my bastardy
To make more base the man who conquer'd thee,
With all thy virtue, rigid and demure?
Who would have thought less than a sovereign prince
Could e'er have compass'd such achievement? Mean
As he may be, thou'st given thyself a master,
And must obey him.—Dost thou yet resist?
Thou know'st my meaning.

[Tearing open his vest in vehemence of action.
Cath.
Under thy vest a dagger!—Ah! too well,
I know thy meaning, cruel, ruthless man!

Rud.
Have I discovered it?—I thought not of it:
The vehemence of gesture hath betray'd me.
I keep it not for thee, but for myself;
A refuge from disgrace. Here is another:
He who with high, but dangerous fortune grapples,
Should he be foil'd, looks but to friends like these.
[Pulling out two daggers from his vest.
This steel is strong to give a vig'rous thrust;
The other on its venom'd point hath that
Which, in the feeblest hand, gives death as certain,
As though a giant smote the destin'd prey.

Cath.
Thou desp'rate man! so arm'd against thyself!

Rud.
Ay; and against myself with such resolves,
Consider well how I shall deal with those
Who may withstand my will or mar my purpose.
Thinkst thou I'll feebly—

Cath.
O be pacified.
I will begone: I am a humbled wretch
On whom thou tramplest with a tyrant's cruelty.

[Exit.
Rud.
(looks after her with a malignant laugh, and then goes to the door of an adjoining chamber, to the lock of which he applies his ear).
All still within—I'm tired and heavy grown:
I'll lay me down to rest. She is secure:
No one can pass me here to gain her chamber.
If she hold parley now with any thing,
It must in truth be ghost or sprite.—Heigh ho!
I'm tir'd, and will to bed.

[Lays himself on the couch and falls asleep. The cry of hounds is then heard without at a distance, with the sound of a horn; and presently Orra enters, bursting from the door of the adjoining chamber, in great alarm.
Orra.
Cathrina! sleepest thou? Awake! awake!
[Running up to the couch and starting back on seeing Rudigere.
That hateful viper here!
Is this my nightly guard? Detested wretch!
I will steal back again.
[Walks softly on tiptoe to the door of her chamber, when the cry of hounds, &c. is again heard without, nearer than before.
O no! I dare not.
Though sleeping, and most hateful when awake,
Still he is natural life and may be rous'd.
[Listening again.
'Tis nearer now: that dismal thrilling blast!
I must awake him.
[Approaching the couch and shrinking back again.
O no! no, no!
Upon his face he wears a horrid smile
That speaks bad thoughts.
[Rud. speaks in his sleep.
He mutters too my name.—
I dare not do it.
[Listening again.
The dreadful sound is now upon the wind,
Sullen and low, as if it wound its way
Into the cavern'd earth that swallow'd it.
I will abide in patient silence here;
Though hateful and asleep, I feel me still
Near something of my kind.
[Crosses her arms, and leans in a cowering posture over the back of a chair at a distance from the couch; when presently the horn is heard without, louder than before, and she starts up.
O it returns! as though the yawning earth
Had given it up again, near to the walls.
The horribly mingled din! 'tis nearer still:
'Tis close at hand: 'tis at the very gate!
[Running up to the couch.
Were he a murd'rer, clenching in his hands
The bloody knife, I must awake him.—No!
That face of dark and subtle wickedness!
I dare not do it. (Listening again.)
Ay; 'tis at the gate—
Within the gate.—
What rushing blast is that
Shaking the doors? Some awful visitation
Dread entrance makes! O mighty God of Heav'n!
A sound ascends the stairs.
Ho, Rudigere!
Awake, awake! Ho! wake thee, Rudigere!

Rud.
(waking).
What cry is that so terribly strong? — Ha! Orra!
What is the matter?

Orra.
It is within the walls. Didst thou not hear it?

Rud.
What? The loud voice that called me?

Orra.
No, it was mine.

Rud.
It sounded in my ears
With more than human strength.

Orra.
Did it so sound?
There is around us, in this midnight air,
A power surpassing nature. List, I pray:
Although more distant now, dost thou not hear
The yell of hounds; the spectre-huntsman's horn?

Rud.
I hear, indeed, a strangely mingled sound:
The wind is howling round the battlements.
But rest secure where safety is, sweet Orra!
Within these arms, nor man nor fiend shall harm thee.

[Approaching her with a softened winning voice, while she pushes him off with abhorrence.
Orra.
Vile reptile! touch me not.

Rud.
Ah! Orra! thou art warp'd by prejudice,
And taught to think me base; but in my veins
Lives noble blood, which I will justify.

Orra.
But in thy heart, false traitor! what lives there?

Rud.
Alas! thy angel-faultlessness conceives not
The strong temptations of a soul impassion'd
Beyond control of reason.—At thy feet—
[Kneeling.
O spurn me not!

Enter several Servants, alarmed.
Rud.
What, all these fools upon us! Staring knaves,
What brings ye here at this untimely hour?

1st serv.
We have all heard it—'twas the yell of hounds
And clatt'ring steeds, and the shrill horn between.

Rud.
Out on such folly!

2d serv.
In very truth it pass'd close to the walls;
Did not your honour hear it?

Rud.
Ha! sayst thou so? thou art not wont to join
In idle tales.—I'll to the battlements
And watch it there: it may return again.

[Exeunt severally, Rudigere followed by servants, and Orra into her own chamber.

SCENE IV.

The Outlaws' cave. Enter Theobald.
Theo.
(looking round).
Here is a place in which some traces are
Of late inhabitants. In yonder nook
The embers faintly gleam, and on the walls
Hang spears and ancient arms: I must be right
A figure through the gloom moves towards me.
Ho! there! Whoe'er you are: Holla! good friend!

Enter an Outlaw.
Out.
A stranger! Who art thou, who art thus bold,
To hail us here unbidden?

Theo.
That thou shalt shortly know. Thou art, I guess,
One of the outlaw'd band who haunt this forest.

Out.
Be thy conjecture right or wrong, no more
Shalt thou return to tell where thou hast found us.
Now for thy life!

[Drawing his sword.
Theo.
Hear me, I do entreat thee.

Out.
Nay, nay! no foolish pleadings; for thy life
Is forfeit now; have at thee!

[Falls fiercely upon Theobald, Who also draws and defends himself bravely, when another outlaw enters and falls likewise upon him. Theo. then recedes fighting, till he gets his back to the wall of the cavern, and there defends himself stoutly.
Enter Franko.
Franko.
Desist, I charge you! Fighting with a stranger,
Two swords to one—a solitary stranger!

1st out.
We are discover'd; had he master'd me,
He had return'd to tell his mates above
What neighbours in these nether caves they have.
Let us despatch him.

Franko.
No, thou hateful butcher!
Despatch a man alone and in our power!
Who art thou, stranger, who dost use thy sword
With no mean skill; and in this perilous case
So bold an air and countenance maintainest?
What brought thee hither?

Theo.
My name is Theobald of Falkenstein;
To find the valiant captain of these bands,
And crave assistance of his gen'rous arm:
This is my business here.

Franko
(struck and agitated, to his men).
Go, join your comrades in the further cave.
[Exeunt outlaws.
And thou art Falkenstein? In truth thou art.
And who thinkst thou am I?

Theo.
Franko, the gen'rous leader of those outlaws.

Franko.
So am I call'd, and by that name alone
They know me. Sporting on the mountain's side,
Where Garva's wood waves green, in other days,
Some fifteen years ago, they call'd me Albert.

Theo.
(rushing into his arms).
Albert; my playmate Albert! Woe the day!
What cruel fortune drove thee to this state?

Franko.
I'll tell thee all! but tell thou first to me
What is the aid thou camest here to ask.

Theo.
Ay, thou wert ever thus: still forward bent
To serve, not to be serv'd.
But wave we this.
Last night a lady to the castle came,
In thraldom by a villain kept, whom I
E'en with my life would rescue. Of armed force
At present destitute, I come to thee
Craving thy aid in counsel and in arms.

Franko.
When didst thou learn that outlaws harbour here,
For 'tis but lately we have held these haunts?

Theo.
Not till within the precincts of the forest,
Following the traces of that villain's course,
One of your band I met, and recogniz'd
As an old soldier, who, some few years back,
Had under my command right bravely serv'd.
Seeing himself discover'd, and encouraged
By what I told him of my story, freely
He offer'd to conduct me to his captain.
But in a tangled path some space before me,
Alarm'd at sight of spearmen through the brake,
He started from his way, and so I miss'd him,
Making my way alone to gain your cave.

Franko.
Thou'rt welcome here: and gladly I'll assist thee,
Though not by arms, the force within the castle
So far out-numbering mine.
But other means may serve thy purpose better.

Theo.
What other means, I pray?

Franko.
From these low caves, a passage under ground
Leads to the castle—to the very tower
Where, as I guess, the lady is confin'd.
When sleep has still'd the house, we'll make our way.

Theo.
Ay, by my faith it is a noble plan!
Guarded or not, we well may overcome
The few that may compose her midnight guard.

Franko.
We shall not shrink from that.—But by my fay!
To-morrow is St. Michael's eve: 'twere well
To be the spectre-huntsman for a night,
And bear her off, without pursuit or hindrance.

Theo.
I comprehend thee not.

Franko.
Thou shalt ere long.
But stand not here; an inner room I have,
Where thou shalt rest and some refreshment take,
And then we will more fully talk of this,
Which, slightly mention'd, seems chimerical.
Follow me.
[Turning to him as they go out.
Hast thou still upon thine arm
That mark which from mine arrow thou receiv'dst
When sportively we shot? The wound was deep,
And gall'd thee much, but thou mad'st light of it.

Theo.
Yes, here it is.

[Pulling up his sleeve as they go out, and Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The ramparts of the castle. Enter Orra and Cathrina.
Cath.
(after a pause, in which Orra walks once or twice across the stage, thoughtfully).
Go in, I pray; thou wand'rest here too long.
[A pause again.
The air is cold; behind those further mountains
The sun is set. I pray thee now go in.

Orra.
Ha! sets the sun already? Is the day
Indeed drawn to its close?

Cath.
Yes, night approaches.
See, many a gather'd flock of cawing rooks
Are to their nests returning.

Orra
(solemnly).
Night approaches!—
This awful night which living beings shrink from;
All now of every kind scour to their haunts,
While darkness, peopled with its hosts unknown,
Awful dominion holds. Mysterious night!
What things unutterable thy dark hours
May lap!—What from thy teeming darkness burst
Of horrid visitations, ere that sun
Again shall rise on the enlighten'd earth!

[A pause.
Cath.
Why dost thou gaze intently on the sky?
Seest thou aught wonderful?

Orra.
Look there, behold that strange gigantic form
Which yon grim cloud assumes; rearing aloft
The semblance of a warrior's plumed head,
While from its half-shaped arm a streamy dart
Shoots angrily! Behind him too, far stretch'd,
Seems there not, verily, a serried line
Of fainter misty forms?

Cath.
I see, indeed,
A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed,
Towering above the rest; and that behind
In misty faintness seen, which hath some likeness
To a long line of rocks with pine-wood crown'd:
Or, if indeed the fancy so incline,
A file of spearmen, seen through drifted smoke.

Orra.
Nay, look how perfect now the form becomes:
Dost thou not see?—Ay, and more perfect still.
O thou gigantic lord, whose robed limbs
Beneath their stride span half the heavens! art thou
Of lifeless vapour formed? Art thou not rather
Some air-clad spirit—some portentous thing—
Some mission'd being—Such a sky as this
Ne'er usher'd in a night of nature's rest.

Cath.
Nay, many such I've seen; regard it not.
That form, already changing, will ere long
Dissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer.
Go in, I pray.

Orra.
No; while one gleam remains
Of the sun's blessed light, I will not go.

Cath.
Then let me fetch a cloak to keep thee warm,
For chilly blows the breeze.

Orra.
Do as thou wilt.

[Exit Cath.
Enter an Outlaw, stealing softly behind her.
Out.
(in a low voice).
Lady!—the Lady Orra!

Orra
(starting).
Heaven protect me!
Sounds it beneath my feet, in earth or air?
[He comes forward.
Welcome is aught that wears a human face.
Didst thou not hear a sound?

Out.
What sound, an't please you?

Orra.
A voice which call'd me now: it spoke, methought,
In a low, hollow tone, suppress'd and low,
Unlike a human voice.

Out.
It was my own.

Orra.
What wouldst thou have?

Out.
Here is a letter, lady.

Orra.
Who sent thee hither?

Out.
It will tell thee all.
[Gives a letter.
I must begone, your chieftain is at hand.

[Exit.
Orra.
Comes it from Falkenstein? It is his seal.
I may not read it here. I'll to my chamber.

[Exit hastily, not perceiving Rudigere, who enters by the opposite side, before she has time to go off.
Rud.
A letter in her hand, and in such haste!
Some secret agent here from Falkenstein?
It must be so.

[Hastening after her, Exit.

SCENE II.

The Outlaws cave. Enter Theobald and Franko by opposite sides.
Theo.
How now, good captain; draws it near the time?
Are those the keys?

Franko.
They are: this doth unlock
The entrance to the staircase, known alone
To Gomez, ancient keeper of the castle,
Who is my friend in secret, and deters
The neighb'ring peasantry with dreadful tales
From visiting by night our wide domains.
The other doth unlock a secret door,
That leads us to the chamber where she sleeps.

Theo.
Thanks, gen'rous friend! thou art my better genius.
Didst thou not say, until the midnight horn
Hath sounded thrice, we must remain conceal'd?

Franko.
Even so. And now I hear my men without
Telling the second watch.

Theo.
How looks the night?

Franko.
As we could wish: the stars do faintly twinkle
Through sever'd clouds, and shed but light sufficient
To show each nearer object closing on you
In dim unshapely blackness. Aught that moves
Across your path, or sheep or straggling goat,
Is now a pawing steed or grizzly bull,
Large and terrific; every air-mov'd bush
Or jutting crag, some strange gigantic thing.

Theo.
Is all still in the castle?

Franko.
There is an owl sits hooting on the tower,
That answer from a distant mate receives,
Like the faint echo of his dismal cry;
While a poor houseless dog by dreary fits
Sits howling at the gate. All else is still.

Theo.
Each petty circumstance is in our favour,
That makes the night more dismal.

Franko.
Ay, all goes well; as I approach'd the walls,
I heard two sentinels—for now, I ween,
The boldest spearman will not watch alone—
Together talk in the deep hollow voice
Of those who speak at midnight, under awe
Of the dead stillness round them.

Theo.
Then let us put ourselves in readiness,
And heaven's good favour guide us!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A gloomy apartment. Enter Orra and Rudigere.
Orra
(aside).
The room is darken'd: yesternight a lamp
Did shed its light around on roof and walls,
And made the dreary space appear less dismal.

Rud.
(overhearing her, and calling to a servant without).
Ho! more lights here!
[Servant enters with a light and exit.
Thou art obey'd: in aught
But in the company of human kind,
Thou shalt be gratified. Thy lofty mind
For higher superhuman fellowship,
If such there be, may now prepare its strength.

Orra.
Thou ruthless tyrant! They who have in battle
Fought valiantly, shrink like a helpless child
From any intercourse with things unearthly.
Art thou a man? And bearst thou in thy breast
The feelings of a man? It cannot be!

Rud.
Yes, madam; in my breast I bear too keenly
The feelings of a man—a man most wretched:
A scorn'd, rejected man.—Make me less miserable;
Nay rather should I say, make me most blest;
And then—
Attempting to take her hand, while she steps back from him, drawing herself up with an air stately and determined, and looking steadfastly in his face.
I too am firm. Thou knowst my fix'd resolve:
Give me thy solemn promise to be mine.
This is the price, thou haughty, scornful maid,
That will redeem thee from the hour of terror!
This is the price—

Orra.
Which never shall be paid.

[Walks from him to the further end of the apartment.
Rud.
(after a pause).
Thou art determin'd, then.
Be not so rash:
Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can bear:
The hour is near at hand.
[She, turning round, waves him with her hand to leave her.
Thou deignst no answer.
Well; reap the fruits of thine unconquer'd pride.

[Exit.
Manet Orra.
Orra.
I am alone: that closing door divides me
From every being owning nature's life.—
And shall I be constrain'd to hold communion
With that which owns it not?
[After pacing to and fro for a little while.
O that my mind
Could raise its thoughts in strong and steady fervour
To Him, the Lord of all existing things,
Who lives, and is where'er existence is;
Grasping its hold upon His skirted robe,
Beneath whose mighty rule angels and spirits,
Demons and nether powers, all living things,
Hosts of the earth, with the departed dead
In their dark state of mystery, alike
Subjected are!—And I will strongly do it.—
Ah! would I could! Some hidden powerful hindrance
Doth hold me back, and mars all thought.—
[After a pause, in which she stands fixed with her arms crossed on her breast.
Dread intercourse!
O! if it look on me with its dead eyes!
If it should move its lock'd and earthy lips,
And utt'rance give to the grave's hollow sounds!
If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp—
O horror, horror!
[Sinking lower at every successive idea, as she repeats these four last lines, till she is quite upon her knees on the ground.
Would that beneath these planks of senseless matter
I could, until the dreadful hour is past,
As senseless be!
[Striking the floor with her hands.
O open and receive me,
Ye happy things of still and lifeless being,
That to the awful steps which tread upon ye
Unconscious are!
Enter Cathrina behind her.
Who's there? Is't any thing?

Cath.
'Tis I, my dearest lady; 'tis Cathrina.

Orra
(embracing her).
How kind! such blessed kindness keep thee by me;
I'll hold thee fast; an angel brought thee hither.
I needs must weep to think thou art so kind
In mine extremity.—Where wert thou hid?

Cath.
In that small closet, since the supper hour,
I've been conceal'd. For searching round the chamber,
I found its door and enter'd. Fear not now,
I will not leave thee till the break of day.

Orra.
Heaven bless thee for it! Till the break of day!
The very thought of daybreak gives me life.
If but this night were past, I have good hope
That noble Theobald will soon be here
For my deliv'rance.

Cath.
Wherefore thinkst thou so?

Orra.
A stranger, when thou leftst me on the ramparts,
Gave me a letter, which I quickly open'd,
As soon as I, methought, had gain'd my room
In privacy; but close behind me came
That demon, Rudigere, and, snatching at it,
Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which,
I struggling with him still, he could not save it.

Cath.
You have not read it then?

Orra.
No; but the seal
Was Theobald's, and I could swear ere long
He will be here to free me from this thraldom.

Cath.
God grant he may!

Orra.
If but this night were past! How goes the time?
Has it not enter'd on the midnight watch?

Cath.
(pointing to a small slab at the corner of the stage on which is placed a sand-glass).
That Glass I've set to measure it. As soon
As all the sand is run, you are secure;
The midnight watch is past.

Orra
(running to the glass, and looking at it eagerly).
There is not much to run; O an't were finish'd!
But it so slowly runs!

Cath.
Yes; watching it,
It seemeth slow. But heed it not; the while,
I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I've finish'd,
The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, I pray.
[They sit, Orra drawing her chair close to Cathrina.
What story shall I tell thee?

Orra.
Something, my friend, which thou thyself hast known,
Touching the awful intercourse which spirits
With mortal men have held at this dread hour.
Didst thou thyself e'er meet with one whose eyes
Had look'd upon the spectred dead—had seen
Forms from another world?

Cath.
Never but once.

Orra
(eagerly).
Once then thou didst. O tell it! tell it me!

Cath.
Well, since I needs must tell it, once I knew
A melancholy man, who did aver,
That journeying on a time o'er a wild waste,
By a fell storm o'erta'en, he was compell'd
To pass the night in a deserted tower,
Where a poor hind, the sole inhabitant
Of the sad place, prepared for him a bed:
And, as he told his tale, at dead of night,
By the pale lamp that in his chamber burn'd
As it might be an arm's-length from his bed—

Orra.
So close upon him?

Cath.
Yes.

Orra.
Go on; what saw he?

Cath.
An upright form, wound in a clotted shroud—
Clotted and stiff, like one swath'd up in haste
After a bloody death.

Orra.
O horrible!

Cath.
He started from his bed and gazed upon it.

Orra.
And did he speak to it?

Cath.
He could not speak.
Its visage was uncover'd, and at first
Seem'd fix'd and shrunk, like one in coffin'd sleep;
But, as he gaz'd, there came, he wist not how,
Into its beamless eyes a horrid glare,
And turning towards him, for it did move—
Why dost thou grasp me thus?

Orra.
Go on, go on!

Cath.
Nay, heaven forefend! Thy shrunk and sharpen'd features
Are of the corse's colour, and thine eyes
Are full of tears. How's this?

Orra.
I know not how.
A horrid sympathy jarr'd on my heart,
And forced into mine eyes these icy tears.
A fearful kindredship there is between
The living and the dead—an awful bond!
Woe's me! that we do shudder at ourselves—
At that which we must be!—A dismal thought!
Where dost thou run? thy story is not told.

[Seeing Cath. go towards the sand-glass.
Cath.
(showing the glass).
A better story I will tell thee now;
The midnight watch is past.

Orra.
Ha! let me see.

Cath.
There's not one sand to run.

Orra.
But it is barely past.

Cath.
'Tis more than past.
For I did set it later than the hour,
To be assur'dly sure.

Orra.
Then it is gone indeed. O heaven be praised!
The fearful gloom gone by!
[Holding up her hands in gratitude to heaven, and then looking round her with cheerful animation.
In truth, already
I feel as if I breath'd the morning air;
I'm marvellously lighten'd.

Cath.
Ne'ertheless,
Thou art forespent; I'll run to my apartment,
And fetch some cordial drops that will revive thee.

Orra.
Thou needst not go; I've ta'en thy drops already;
I'm bold and buoyant grown.

[Bounding lightly from the floor.
Cath.
I'll soon return;
Thou art not fearful now?

Orra.
No; I breathe lightly;
Valour within me grows most powerfully,
Wouldst thou but stay to see it, gentle Cathrine!

Cath.
I will return to see it, ere thou canst
Three times repeat the letters of thy name.

[Exit hastily by the concealed door.
Orra.
(alone).
This burst of courage shrinks most shamefully.
I'll follow her.—
[Striving to open the door.
'Tis fast; it will not open.
I'll count my footsteps as I pace the floor
Till she return again. [Paces up and down, muttering to herself, when a horn is heard without, pausing and sounding three times, each time louder than before.
[Orra runs again to the door.

Despair will give me strength; where is the door?
Mine eyes are dark, I cannot find it now.
O God! protect me in this awful pass!
[After a pause, in which she stands with her body bent in a cowering posture, with her hands locked together, and trembling violently, she starts up and looks wildly round her.
There's nothing, yet I felt a chilly hand
Upon my shoulder press'd. With open'd eyes
And ears intent I'll stand. Better it is
Thus to abide the awful visitation,
Than cower in blinded horror, strain'd intensely
With ev'ry beating of my goaded heart.
[Looking round her with a steady sternness, but shrinking again almost immediately.
I cannot do it: on this spot I'll hold me
In awful stillness.
[Bending her body as before; then, after a momentary pause, pressing both her hands upon her head.
The icy scalp of fear is on my head;
The life stirs in my hair; it is a sense
That tells the nearing of unearthly steps,
Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish.

[Looking round, as if by irresistible impulse, to a great door at the bottom of the stage, which bursts open, and the form of a huntsman, clothed in black, with a horn in his hand, enters and advances towards her. She utters a loud shriek, and falls senseless on the ground.
Theo.
(running up to her, and raising her from the ground).
No semblance, but real agony of fear.
Orra, oh, Orra! knowst thou not my voice?
Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobald?
Open thine eyes and look upon my face:
[Unmasking.
I am no fearful waker from the grave.
Dost thou not feel? 'Tis the warm touch of life.
Look up, and fear will vanish.—Words are vain!
What a pale countenance of ghastly strength
By horror chang'd! O idiot that I was
To hazard this—The villain hath deceiv'd me:
My letter she has ne'er receiv'd. O fool!
That I should trust to this!

[Beating his head distractedly.
Enter Franko, by the same door.
Franko.
What is the matter? what strange turn is this?

Theo.
O cursed sanguine fool! could I not think—
She moves, she moves!—rouse thee, my gentle Orra!
'Tis no strange voice that calls thee; 'tis thy friend.

Franko.
She opens now her eyes.

Theo.
But, oh, that look!

Franko.
She knows thee not, but gives a stifled groan,
And sinks again in stupor.
Make no more fruitless lamentation here,
But bear her hence: the cool and open air
May soon restore her. Let us, while we may,
Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised.

[Exeunt: Orra borne off in a state of insensibility.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The great hall of the castle. Enter Rudigere, Cathrina, and Attendants, by different doors.
Rud.
(to attend.)
Return'd again! Is any thing discover'd?
Or door or passage, garment dropt in haste,
Or footstep's track, or any mark of flight?

1st att.
No, by my faith! though we have search'd the castle
From its high turret to its deepest vault.

Cath.
'Tis vain to trace the marks of trackless feet.
If that in truth it hath convey'd her hence,
The yawning earth has yielded them a passage,
Or else, through rifted roofs, the buoyant air.

Rud.
Fools! search again. I'll raze the very walls
From their foundations, but I will discover
If door or pass there be to us unknown.
Ho! Gomez, there!
[Calling off the stage.
He keeps himself aloof:
Nor aids the search with true and hearty will.
I am betray'd—Ho! Gomez, there, I say!
He shrinks away: go, drag the villain hither,
And let the torture wring confession from him.
[A loud knocking heard at the gate.
Ha! who seeks entrance at this early hour
In such a desert place?

Cath.
Some hind, perhaps,
Who brings intelligence. Heaven grant it be!

Enter an armed Vassal.
Rud.
Ha! one from Aldenberg! what brings thee hither?

Vass.
(seizing Rud.)
Thou art my prisoner. (To attendants.)
Upon you peril,
Assist me to secure him.

Rud.
Audacious hind! by what authority
Speakst thou such bold commands? Produce thy warrant.

Vass.
'Tis at the gate, and such as thou must yield to:
Count Hughobert himself, with armed men,
A goodly band, his pleasure to enforce.

[Secures him.
Rud.
What sudden freak is this? am I suspected
Of aught but true and honourable faith?

Vass.
Ay, by our holy saints! more than suspected.
Thy creature Maurice, whom thou thought'st to bribe
With things of seeming value, hath discover'd
The cunning fraud; on which his tender conscience,
Good soul! did o' the sudden so upbraid him,
That to his lord forthwith he made confession
Of all the plots against the Lady Orra,
In which thy wicked arts had tempted him
To take a wicked part. All is discover'd.

Cath.
(aside).
All is discover'd! Where then shall I hide me?
(Aloud to vass.)
What is discover'd?

Vass.
Ha! most virtuous lady!
Art thou alarm'd? Fear not: the world well knows
How good thou art; and to the countess shortly,
Who with her lord is near, thou wilt no doubt
Give good account of all that thou hast done.

Cath.
(aside, as she retires in agitation).
O heaven forbid! What hole o' th' earth will hide me!

[Exit.
Enter by the opposite side, Hughobert, Eleanora, Alice, Glottenbal, Urston, Maurice, and Attendants.
Hugh.
(speaking as he enters).
Is he secured?

Vass.
He is, my lord; behold!

[Pointing to Rud.
Hugh.
(to Rud.)
Black, artful traitor! Of a sacred trust,
Blindly reposed in thee, the base betrayer
For wicked ends; full well upon the ground
Mayst thou decline those darkly frowning eyes,
And gnaw thy lip in shame.

Rud.
And rests no shame with him, whose easy faith
Entrusts a man unproved; or, having proved him,
Lets a poor hireling's unsupported testimony
Shake the firm confidence of many years?

Hugh.
Here the accuser stands; confront him boldly,
And spare him not.

[Bringing forward Maurice.
Maur.
(to Rud.)
Deny it if thou canst. Thy brazen front,
All brazen as it is, denies it not.

Rud.
(to Maur.)
Fool! that of prying curiosity
And av'rice art compounded! I in truth
Did give to thee a counterfeited treasure
To bribe thee to a counterfeited trust;
Meet recompense! Ha, ha! Maintain thy tale,
For I deny it not.

[With careless derision.
Maur.
O, subtle traitor!
Dost thou so varnish it with seeming mirth?

Hugh.
Sir Rudigere, thou dost, I must confess,
Outface him well. But call the Lady Orra;
If towards her thou hast thyself comported
In honesty, she will declare it freely.
(To attendant.)
Bring Orra hither.

1st att.
Would that we could; last night i' the midnight watch
She disappear'd; but whether man or devil
Hath borne her hence, in truth we cannot tell.

Hugh.
O both! Both man and devil together join'd.
(To Rud. furiously.)
Fiend, villain, murderer! Produce her instantly.
Dead or alive, produce thy hapless charge.

Rud.
Restrain your rage, my lord; I would right gladly
Obey you, were it possible: the place,
And the mysterious means of her retreat,
Are both to me unknown.

Hugh.
Thou liest! thou liest!

Glot.
(coming forward).
Thou liest, beast, villain, traitor! thinkst thou still
To fool us thus? Thou shalt be forced to speak.
(To Hugh.)
Why lose we time in words when other means
Will quickly work? Straight to those pillars bind him,
And let each sturdy varlet of your train
Inflict correction on him.

Maur.
Ay, this alone will move him.

Hugh.
Thou sayst well:
By heaven it shall be done!

Rud.
And will Count Hughobert degrade in me
The blood of Aldenberg to shame himself?

Hugh.
That plea avails thee not; thy spurious birth
Gives us full warrant, as thy conduct varies,
To reckon thee or noble or debased.
(To att.)
Straight bind the traitor to the place of shame.

[As they are struggling to bind Rud. he gets one of his hands free, and, pulling out a dagger from under his clothes, stabs himself.
Rud.
Now, take your will of me, and drag my corse
Through mire and dust; your shameless fury now
Can do me no disgrace.

Urston
(advancing).
Rash, daring, thoughtless wretch! dost thou so close
A wicked life in hardy desperation?

Rud.
Priest, spare thy words: I add not to my sins
That of presumption, in pretending now
To offer up to heaven the forced repentance
Of some short moments for a life of crimes.

Urst.
My son, thou dost mistake me: let thy heart
Confession make—

Glot.
(interrupting Urst.)
Yes, dog! Confession make
Of what thou'st done with Orra; else I'll spurn thee,
And cast thy hateful carcass to the kites.

Hugh.
(pulling back Glot. as he is going to spurn Rud. with his foot, who is now fallen upon the ground).
Nay, nay, forbear; such outrage is unmanly.

[Eleanora, who with Alice had retired from the shocking sight of Rudigere, new comes forward to him.
El.
Oh, Rudigere! thou art a dying man,
And we will speak to thee without upbraiding.
Confess, I do entreat thee, ere thou goest
To thy most awful change, and leave us not
In this our horrible uncertainty.
Is Orra here conceal'd?

Al.
Thou hast not slain her?
Confession make, and heaven have mercy on thee!

Rud.
Yes, ladies; with these words of gentle meekness
My heart is changed; and that you may perceive
How greatly changed, let Glottenbal approach me;
Spent am I now, and can but faintly speak—
E'en unto him in token of forgiveness
I'll tell what ye desire.

El.
Thank heaven, thou art so changed!

Hugh.
(to Glot.)
Go to him, boy.

[Glottenbal goes to Rudigere, and stooping over him to hear what he has to say, Rudigere, taking a small dagger from his bosom, strikes Glottenbal on the neck.
Glot.
Oh, he has wounded me!—Detested traitor!
Take that and that; would thou hadst still a life
For every thrust.

[Killing him.
Hugh.
(alarmed).
Ha! has he wounded thee. my son?

Glot.
A scratch;
'Tis nothing more. He aim'd it at my throat,
But had not strength to thrust.

Hugh.
Thank God, he had not!
[A trumpet sounds without.
Hark! martial notice of some high approach!
(To attendants.)
Go to the gate.

[Exeunt attendants.
El.
Who may it be? This castle is remote
From every route which armed leaders take.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
The Banneret of Basle is at the gate.

Hugh.
Is he in force?

Serv.
Yes, through the trees his distant bands are seen
Some hundreds strong, I guess; though with himself
Two followers only come.

Enter Hartman attended.
Hugh.
Forgive me, banneret, if I receive thee
With more surprise than courtesy. How is it?
Com'st thou in peace?

Hart.
To you, my lord, I frankly will declare
The purpose of my coming: having heard it,
It is for you to say if I am come,
As much I wish, in peace.
(To El.)
Countess, your presence much emboldens me
To think it so shall be.

Hugh.
(impatiently).
Proceed, I beg.
When burghers gentle courtesy affect,
It chafes me more than all their sturdy boasting.

Hart.
Then with a burgher's plainness, Hughobert,
I'll try my tale to tell,—nice task I fear!
So that it may not gall a baron's pride.
Brave Theobald, the lord of Falkenstein,
Co-burgher also of our ancient city,
Whose cause of course is ours, declares himself
The suitor of thy ward, the Lady Orra;
And learning that within these walls she is,
By thine authority, in durance kept,
In his behalf I come to set her free;
As an oppressed dame, such service claiming
From ev'ry gen'rous knight. What is thy answer?
Say, am I come in peace? Wilt thou release her?

Hugh.
Ah, would I could! In faith thou gall'st me shrewdly.

Hart.
I've been inform'd of all that now disturbs you,
By one who held me waiting at the gate.
Until the maid be found, if 'tis your pleasure,
Cease enmity.

Hugh.
Then let it cease. A traitor has deceived me,
And there he lies.

[Pointing to the body of Rud.
Hart.
(looking at the body).
A ghastly smile of fell malignity
On his distorted face death has arrested.
[Turning again to Hugh.
And has he died, and no confession made?
All means that may discover Orra's fate
Shut from us?

Hugh.
Ah! the fiend hath utter'd nothing
That could betray his secret. If she lives—

El.
Alas, alas! think you he murder'd her?

Al.
Merciful heaven forefend!

Enter a Soldier in haste.
Sold.
O, I have heard a voice, a dismal voice!

Omnes.
What hast thou heard?

El.
What voice?

Sold.
The Lady Orra's.

El.
Where? Lead us to the place.

Hugh.
Where didst thou heart it, soldier?

Sold.
In a deep-tangled thicket of the wood,
Close to a ruin'd wall, o'ergrown with ivy,
That marks the ancient outworks of the castle.

Hugh.
Haste; lead the way.

[Exeunt all eagerly, without order, following the soldier, Glottenbal and one attendant excepted.
Att.
You do not go, my lord?

Glot.
I'm sick, and strangely dizzy grows my head,
And pains shoot from my wound. It is a scratch,
But from a devil's fang.—There's mischief in it.
Give me thine arm, and lead me to a couch:
I'm very faint.

Att.
This way, my lord; there is a chamber near.

[Exit Glottenbal, Supported by the attendant.

SCENE II.

The forest near the castle; in front a rocky bank crowned with a ruined wall overgrown with ivy, and the mouth of a cavern shaded with bushes. Enter Franko, conducting Hughobert, Hartman, Eleanora, Alice, and Urston, the Soldier following them.
Franko
(to Hugh.).
This is the entry to our secret haunts.
And now, my lord, having inform'd you truly
Of the device, well meant, but most unhappy,
By which the Lady Orra from her prison
By Falkenstein was ta'en, myself, my outlaws,
Unhappy men—who better days have seen,
Driv'n to this lawless life by hard necessity,
Are on your mercy cast.

Hugh.
Which shall not fail you, valiant Franko. Much
Am I indebted to thee: hadst thou not
Of thine own free good will become our guide,
As wand'ring here thou foundst us, we had ne'er
The spot discover'd; for this honest soldier,
A stranger to the forest, sought in vain
To thread the tangled path.

El.
(to Franko).
She is not well, thou sayst, and from her swoon
Imperfectly recover'd.

Franko.
When I left her,
She so appear'd.—But enter not, I pray,
Till I give notice.—Holla, you within!
Come forth and fear no ill.

[A shriek heard from the cave.
Omnes.
What dismal shriek is that?

Al.
'Tis Orra's voice.

El.
No, no! it cannot be! It is some wretch,
In maniac's fetters bound.

Hart.
The horrid thought that bursts into my mind!
Forbid it, righteous Heaven!

[Running into the cave, he is prevented by Theobald, who rushes out upon him.
Theo.
Hold, hold! no entry here but o'er my corse,
When ye have master'd me.

Hart.
My Theobald,
Dost thou not know thy friends?

Theo.
Ha! thou, my Hartman! Art thou come to me?

Hart.
Yes, I am come. What means that look of anguish?
She is not dead!

Theo.
Oh, no! it is not death!

Hart.
What meanst thou? Is she well?

Theo.
Her body is.

Hart.
And not her mind?—Oh! direst wreck of all!
That noble mind!—But 'tis some passing seizure,
Some powerful movement of a transient nature;
It is not madness?

Theo.
(shrinking from him, and bursting into tears).
'Tis heaven's infliction; let us call it so;
Give it no other name.

[Covering his face.
El.
(to Theo.)
Nay, do not thus despair: when she beholds us,
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing,
Be gradually restored.

Al.
Let me go to her.

Theo.
Nay, forbear, I pray thee;
I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman,
Go in and lead her forth.

[Theobald and Hartman go into the cavern, while those without wait in deep silence, which is only broken once or twice by a scream from the cavern and the sound of Theobald's voice speaking soothingly, till they return, leading forth Orra, with her hair and dress disordered, and the appearance of wild distraction in her gait and countenance.
Orra
(shrinking back as she comes from under the shade of the trees, &c. and dragging Theobald and Hartman back with her).
Come back, come back! The fierce and fiery light!

Theo.
Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day.

Orra.
Have cocks crow'd yet?

Theo.
Yes; twice I've heard already
Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky;
Is it not daylight there? And these green boughs
Are fresh and fragrant round thee: every sense
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day.

Orra.
Ay, so it is; day takes his daily turn,
Rising between the gulfy dells of night
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea;
Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark,
And will-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light,
They will not come again.
[Bending her ear to the ground.
Hark, hark! Ay, hark!
They are all there: I hear their hollow sound
Full many a fathom down.

Theo.
Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return:
They are for ever gone. Be well assured
Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home
With crackling faggots on thy midnight fire,
Blazing like day around thee; and thy friends—
Thy living, loving friends still by thy side,
To speak to thee and cheer thee.—See, my Orra!
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them?

(Pointing to Eleanora and Alice.)
Orra
(gazing at them with her hand held up to shade her eyes).
No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light,
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing.

El.
(going near her).
My gentle Orra! hast thou then forgot me?
Dost thou not know my voice?

Orra.
'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd.
For there be those, who sit in cheerful halls,
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds;
And once I liv'd with such; some years gone by;
I wot not now how long.

Hugh.
Keen words that rend my heart!—Thou hadst a home,
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection.

Urst.
Be more composed, my lord, some faint remembrance
Returns upon her with the well-known sound
Of voices once familiar to her ear.
Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune,
That may lost thoughts recall.

[Alice sings an old tune, and Orra, who listens eagerly and gazes on her while she sings, afterwards bursts into a wild laugh.
Orra.
Ha, ha! the witched air sings for thee bravely.
Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds?
It lures not me. — I know thee well enough:
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat,
And fleshless heads nod to thee.—Off, I say!
Why are ye here?—That is the blessed sun.

El.
Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus!
These are the voices of thy loving friends
That speak to thee: this is a friendly hand
That presses thine so kindly.

[Putting her hand upon Orra's, who gives a loud shriek, and shrinks from her with horror.
Hart.
O grievous state. (Going up to her.)
What terror seizes thee?

Orra.
Take it away! It was the swathed dead!
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch.
[Fixing her eyes fiercely on Eleanora.
Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now:
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things;
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds,
I'll 'bide the trooping of unearthly steps
With stiff-clench'd, terrible strength.

[Holding her clenched hands over her head with an air of grandeur and defiance.
Hugh.
(beating his breast).
A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me.

Hart.
Be patient; 'tis a momentary pitch;
Let me encounter it.

[Goes up to Orra, and fixes his eyes upon her, which she, after a moment, shrinks from and seeks to avoid, yet still, as if involuntarily, looks at him again.
Orra.
Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye:
I may not look upon thee, yet I must.
[Still turning from him, and still snatching a hasty look at him as before.
Unfix thy baleful glance: art thou a snake?
Something of horrid power within thee dwells.
Still, still that powerful eye doth such me in
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core.
Spare me! O spare me, being of strange power,
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay!

[Kneeling to Hartman and bending her head submissively.
El.
Alas the piteous sight! to see her thus;
The noble generous, playful, stately Orra!

Theo.
(running to Hartman, and pushing him away with indignation).
Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile!
Thinkst thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state
The slightest shadow of a base control?
[Raising Orra from the ground.
No, rise thou stately flower with rude blasts rent:
As honour'd art thou with thy broken stem,
And leaflets strew'd, as in thy summer's pride.
I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal dame
With every studied form of mark'd devotion,
Whilst I in distant silence, scarcely proffer'd
E'en a plain soldier's courtesy; but now,
No liege-man to his crowned mistress sworn,
Bound and devoted is, as I to thee;
And he who offers to thy alter'd state
The slightest seeming of diminish'd revirence,
Must in my blood—(To Hartman.)
O pardon me, my friend!
Thou'st wrung my heart.

Hart.
Nay, do thou pardon me: I am to blame:
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung.
But what can now be done? O'er such wild ravings
There must be some control.

Theo.
O none! none, none! but gentle sympathy
And watchfulness of love.
My noble Orra!
Wander where'er thou wilt; thy vagrant steps
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary,
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task;
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty
Could ne'er have bound him.

Al.
See how she gazes on him with a look,
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness.
Half saying that she knows him.

El.
There is a kindness in her changing eye.
Yes, Orra, 'tis the valiant Theobald,
Thy knight and champion, whom thou gazest on.

Orra.
The brave are like the brave; so should it be.
He was a goodly man—a noble knight.
(To Theobald.)
What is thy name, young soldier?—Woe is me!
For prayers of grace are said o'er dying men,
Yet they have laid thy clay in unblest earth—
Shame! shame! not with the still'd and holy dead.
This shall be rectified; I'll find it out;
And masses shall be said for thy repose;
Thou shalt not troop with these.

El.
'Tis not the dead, 'tis Theobald himself,
Alive and well, who standeth by thy side.

Orra
(looking wildly round).
Where, where? All dreadful things are near me. round me,
Beneath my feet and in the loaded air.
Let him begone! The place is horrible!
Baneful to flesh and blood.—The dreadful blast!
Their hounds now yell below i' the centre gulph;
They may not rise again till solemn bells
Have giv'n the stroke that severs night from morn.

El.
O rave not thus! Dost thou not know us, Orra?

Orra
(hastily).
Ay, well enough I know ye.

Urst.
Ha! think ye that she does?

El.
It is a terrible smile of recognition,
If such it be.

Hart.
Nay, do not thus your restless eye-balls move,
But look upon us steadily, sweet Orra.

Orra.
Away! your faces waver to and fro;
I'll know you better in your winding-sheets,
When the moon shines upon you.

Theo.
Give o'er, my friends; you see it is in vain;
Her mind within itself holds a dark world
Of dismal phantasies and horrid forms!
Contend with her no more.

Enter an attendant in an abrupt disturbed manner.
Att.
(to Eleanora, aside).
Lady, I bring to you most dismal news:
Too grievous for my lord, so suddenly
And unprepar'd to hear.

El.
(aside).
What is it? Speak.

Att.
(aside to El)
His son is dead, all swell'd and rack'd withpain;
And on the dagger's point, which the sly traitor
Still in his stiffen'd grasp retains, foul stains,
Like those of limed poison, show full well
The wicked cause of his untimely death.

Hugh.
(overhearing them).
Who speaks of death? What didst thou whisper there?
How is my son?—What look is that thou wearst?
He is not dead?—Thou dost not speak! O God!
I have no son.
[After a pause.
I am bereft!—But this!
But only him!—Heaven's vengeance deals the stroke.

Urst.
Heaven oft in mercy smites, e'en when the blow
Is most severe.

Hugh.
I had no other hope.
Fell is the stroke, if mercy in it be!
Could this—could this alone atone my crime?

Urst.
Submit thy soul to Heaven's all-wise decree.
Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes
Than e'en his grievous end.

Hugh.
He was not all a father's heart could wish;
But, oh! he was my son!—my only son:
My child—the thing that from his cradle grew,
And was before me still.—Oh, oh! Oh, oh!

[Beating his breast and groaning deeply.
Orra
(running up to him).
Ha! dost thou groan, old man? art thou in trouble?
Out on it! though they lay him in the mould,
He's near thee still.—I'll tell thee how it is:
A hideous burst hath been: the damn'd and holy,
The living and the dead, together are
In horrid neighbourship—'Tis but thin vapour,
Floating around thee, makes the wav'ring bound.
Pooh! blow it off, and see th' uncurtain'd reach.
See! from all points they come; earth casts them up!
In grave-clothes swath'd are those but new in death;
And there be some half bone, half cased in shreds
Of that which flesh hath been; and there be some
With wicker'd ribs, through which the darkness scowls.
Back, back!—They close upon us.—Oh! the void
Of hollow unball'd sockets staring grimly,
And lipless jaws that move and clatter round us
In mockery of speech!—Back, back, I say!
Back, back!

[Catching hold of Hughobert and Theobald, and dragging them back with her in all the wild strength of frantic horror, whilst the curtain drops.

THE BEACON:

A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Ulrick, lord of the island.
• Ermingard.
• Bastiani, friend of Ulrick.
• Garcio, friend of Ermingard.
• Page.
• Pope's Legate.
• Knights of St. John of Jerusalem.
• Fishermen, singers, attendants of the Legate, &c.

WOMEN

• Aurora.
• Terentia, a noble lady, and gouvernante to Aurora.
• Viola, lady attending on Aurora.
• Edda, lady attending on Aurora.

Scene, a small island of the Mediterranean. Time, towards the middle of the 14th century.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A grove adjoining to a castellated building, part of which only is seen. Several people are discovered near the window of one of its towers who begin to sing as the curtain draws up.
Enter Page.
Page.
Leave off your morning songs, they come too late;
My lady hath been up these two good hours,
And hath no heart to listen to your lays!
You should have cheer'd her sooner.

1st sing.
Her nightly vigils make the evening morn.
And thus we reckon'd time.

Page.
Well, go ye now;
Another day she'll hear your carols out.

[Exeunt page and singers severally, by the bottom of the stage, while Ulrick and Terentia enter by the front, speaking as they enter.
Ul.
Thou pleadst in vain: this night shall be the last.

Ter.
Have patience, noble Ulrick; be assur'd,
Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone,
Comes to a natural end. Then let Aurora,
Night after night, upon the lofty cliff,
Her beacon watch: despondency, ere long,
Will steal upon the sad unvaried task.

Ul.
Sad and unvaried! Ay; to sober minds
So doth it seem indeed. I've seen a child,
Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring
The wonted mess, prepared against its waking,
'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt:
Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out
His rod and baitless line from morn till noon,
Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare
A thousand times hath glided, till by force
His angry dame hath dragg'd him from his station.
Hope is of such a tough continuous nature,
That, waiting thus its natural end, my life
Shall to a close wear sadly. Patience, sayst thou!
I have too long been patient.

Ter.
Then be it known to thee, despondency
Already steals upon her; for she sits not
So oft as she was wont upon the beach,
But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence;
And when the night is come, less eagerly
She now inquires if yet the beacon's light
Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff
Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess,
Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more.

Ul.
No, thou unwisely guessest. By that flame
I do believe some spirit of the night
Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear
With whisper'd prophecies of good to come.

Ter.
In truth, my lord, you do yourself talk strangely.
These are wild thoughts.

Ul.
Nay, be thou well assur'd,
Spell-bound she is: night hath become her day;
On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous things
(Shunning the sober intercourse of friends
Such as affliction courts), her ear and fancy
Do solely dwell. This visionary state
Is foster'd by these nightly watchings; therefore,
I say again, I will no more endure it;
This night shall be the last.

Ter.
That Ermingard upon the plains of Palestine
Fell on that fatal day, what sober mind
Can truly doubt; although his corpse, defaced,
Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd.
For well I am assured, had he survived it,
Knowing thou wert his rival, and Aurora
Left in this isle, where thou bearst sov'reign sway,
He, with a lover's speed, had hasten'd back.
All, whom the havoc of the battle spared,
Have to their homes return'd.—Thou shak'st thy head,
Thou dost not doubt?

Ul.
We'll speak of this no more.
I'm sick and weary of these calculations.
We must and will consider him as dead;
And let Aurora know—

Enter Bastiani.
(To Bast. angrily.)
Why, Bastiani,
Intrud'st thou thus, regardless of my state:
These petty cares are grown most irksome to me;
I cannot hear thee now.
Bast.
Indeed, my lord, it is no petty care
Compels me to intrude. Within your port
A vessel from the Holy Land has moor'd.

Ul.
(starting).
Warriors from Palestine?

Bast.
No, good my lord!
The holy legate on his way to Rome;
Who by late tempests driven on our coasts,
Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit,
And give refreshment to his weary train.

Ul.
In evil hour he comes to lord it here.

Bast.
He doth appear a meek and peaceful man.

Ul.
'Tis seeming all. I would with mailed foes
Far rather in th' embattled plain contend,
Than strive with such my peaceful town within.
Already landed, sayst thou?

Bast.
Yes, from the beach their grave procession comes.
Between our gazing sight and the bright deep
That glows behind them in the western sun,
Crosses and spears and croziers show aloft
Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct confusion;
While grey-cowl'd monks, and purple-stoled priests,
And crested chiefs, a closing group below,
Motley and garish, yet right solemn too,
Move slowly on.—

Ul.
Then must I haste to meet them.

Bast.
Or be most strangely wanting in respect.
For every street and alley of your city
Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon them:
The very sick and dying, whose wan forms
No more did think to meet the breath of heaven,
Creep to their doors, and stretch their wither'd arms
To catch a benediction. Blushing maids,
Made bold by inward sense of sanctity,
Come forth with threaded rosaries in their hands
To have them by the holy prelate bless'd;
And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up,
That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe
May bring them good. And in fair truth, my lord,
Among the crowd the rev'rend legate seems
Like a right noble and right gentle parent,
Cheering a helpless race.

Ul.
Ay, 'tis right plain thou art besotted too.
Were he less gentle I should fear him less.

[Exit.
Bast.
He's in a blessed mood: what so disturbs him?

Ter.
What has disturb'd him long, as well thou knowest:
Aurora's persevering fond belief
That her beloved Ermingard still lives,
And will return again. To guide his bark
Upon our dang'rous coast, she nightly kindles
Her watch-fire, sitting by the lonely flame;
For so she promis'd, when he parted from her,
To watch for his return.

Bast.
Ulrick in wisdom should have married them
Before he went, for then the chance had been
She had not watch'd so long.
Your widow is a thing of more docility
Than your lorn maiden.—Pardon, fair Terentia.

Ter.
Thy tongue wags freely. Yet I must confess,
Had Ulrick done what thou callst wisely, he
The very thing had done which as her kinsman
He was in duty bound to. But, alas!
A wayward passion warp'd him from the right,
And made him use his power ungen'rously
Their union to prevent.

Bast.
But though the death of Ermingard were prov'd,
Thinkst thou Aurora would bestow her hand
On one who has so long her wishes cross'd,
A lover cloth'd in stern authority?

Ter.
I know not; Ulrick fondly so believes;
And I, although allied to him by blood,
The playmate also of his early days,
Dare not an opposite opinion utter.

Bast.
Hark there! I hear without th' approaching crowd.
My duty on this public ceremony
I must attend, for honour of the state.
In petty courts like this, on such occasions,
One spangled doublet more or less bears count.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

An arbour, supported by rustic wooden pillars, twined round with flowers and green plants, and a flowergarden seen in the background between the pillars. Enter Page, followed by Edda, speaking as she enters.
Edda.
Yes, do so, boy; Aurora is at hand.—
But take with thee, beside, this little basket,
And gather roses in the farther thicket,
Close to the garden-gate.—

Page
(taking the basket).
Give it me then. She chid me yesterday
For gath'ring full-spread roses, whose loose leaves
Fell on her lap: to-day I'll fill my basket
With buds, and blossoms, and half open'd flowers,
Such as nice dames do in their kerchiefs place.

Edda.
Prate less and move thee quicker. Get thee hence.
See there, thy mistress comes: haste to thy task.

[Exit page.
Enter Aurora, and Terentia.
Ter.
Here you will find a more refreshing air;
The western sun beats fiercely.

Aur.
Western sun!
Is time so far advanced? I left my couch
Scarcely an hour ago.

Ter.
You are deceiv'd.
Three hours have past, but past by you unheeded;
Who have the while in silent stillness been,
Like one forlorn, that has no need of time.

Aur.
In truth I now but little have to do
With time or any thing besides. It passes;
Hour follows hour; day follows day; and year,
If I so long shall last, will follow year:
Like drops that through the cavern'd hermit's roof
Some cold spring filters; glancing on his eye
At measur'd intervals, but moving not
His fix'd unvaried notice.

Edda.
Nay, dearest lady, be not so depress'd.
You have not ask'd me for my song to-day—
The song you prais'd so much. Shall I not sing it?
I do but wait your bidding.

Aur.
I thank thy kindness; sing it if thou wilt.

[Sits down on a low seat, her head supported between both her hands, with her elbows resting on her knees.
Ter.
Is not her voice improv'd in power and sweetness?

Edda.
It is a cheering song.

Aur.
It cheers those who are cheer'd.
[After a pause.
Twelve years are past;
Their daughters matrons grown, their infants youths,
And they themselves with aged furrows mark'd;
But none of all their kin are yet return'd;
No, nor shall ever.

Ter.
Still run thy thoughts upon those hapless women
Of that small hamlet, whose advent'rous peasants
To Palestine with noble Baldwin went,
And ne'er were heard of more?

Aur.
They perish'd there; and of their dismal fate
No trace remain'd—none of them all return'd.
Didst thou not say so?—Husbands, lovers, friends,
Not one return'd again.

Ter.
So I believe.

Aur.
Thou but believest then?

Ter.
As I was told—

Edda.
Thou hast the story wrong.
Four years gone by, one did return again;
But marr'd, and maim'd, and chang'd—a woeful man.

Aur.
And what though every limb were hack'd and maim'd,
And roughen'd o'er with scars?—he did return.
[Rising lightly from her seat.
I would a pilgrimage to Iceland go,
To the antipodes or burning zone,
To see that man who did return again,
And her who did receive him.—Did receive him.!
O what a moving thought lurks here!—How was't?
Tell it me all: and oh, another time,
Give me your tale ungarbled.—
Enter Viola.
Ha, Viola! 'tis my first sight of thee
Since our long vigil. Thou hast had, I hope,
A sound and kindly sleep.

Viola.
Kindly enough, but somewhat cross'd with dreams.

Aur.
How cross'd? what was thy dream? O tell it me!
I have an ear that craves for every thing
That hath the smallest sign or omen in it.
It was not sad?

Viola.
Nay, rather strange; methought
A christ'ning feast within your bower was held;
But when the infant to the font was brought,
It prov'd a full-grown man in armour clad.

Aur.
A full-grown man! (Considering for a moment, and then holding up her hands.)
O blessing on thy dream!
From death to life restor'd is joyful birth.
It is, it is! come to my heart, sweet maid,
[Embracing Viola.
A blessing on thyself and on thy sleep!
I feel a kindling life within me stir,
That doth assure me it has shadow'd forth
A joy that soon shall be.

Ter.
So may it prove!
But trust not such vain fancies, nor appear
Too much elated; for unhappy Ulrick
Swears that your beacon, after this night's watch,
Shall burn no more.

Aur.
He does! then will we have
A noble fire. This night our lofty blaze
Shall through the darkness shoot full many a league
Its streamy rays, like to a bearded star
Preceding changeful—ay, and better times.
It may in very truth. O if his bark
(For many a bark within their widen'd reach
The dark seas traverse) should our light descry!
Should this be so—it may; perhaps it will.
O that it might!—We'll have a rousing blaze!
Give me your hands.
[Taking Viola and Terentia gaily by the hands.
So lightly bounds my heart,
I could like midnight goblins round the flame
Unruly orgies hold.—Ha! think ye not,
When to the font our mail-clad infant comes,
Ulrick will a right gracious gossip prove?

Viola.
Assuredly, so will his honour prompt.

Aur.
Nay, rather say his pride. Methinks I see him;
His darken'd figure striding 'cross the hall,
While his high plume, that noddeth to and fro,
Show'th his perturb'd and restless courtesy.
Good, noble, happy wight! Yet woe betide
The luckless hound that fawns on him that day!
His dismal yell disturbs the ceremony.
Ha, ha! I needs must laugh.

Ter.
Indeed you let your fancy wildly run,
And disappointment will but prove the sharper.

Aur.
Talk not of disappointment; be assur'd
Some late intelligence hath Ulrick prompted
To these stern orders. On our sea there sails,
Or soon will sail, some vessel, which right gladly
He would permit to founder on the coast,
Or miss its course. But no, it will not be:
In spite of all his hatred, to the shore,
Through seas as dark as subterraneous night,
It will arrive in safety.

Ter.
Nay, sweet Aurora, feed not thus thy wishes
With wild unlikely thoughts; for Ulrick surely
No such intelligence hath had, and thou
But makest thy after-sorrow more acute,
When these vain fancies fail.

Aur.
And let them fail: though duller thoughts succeed,
The bliss e'en of a moment still is bliss.

Viola
(to Ter.)
Thou wouldst not of her dewdrops spoil the thorn,
Because her glory will not last till noon;
Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt,
Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't!
If this be wise, 'tis cruel.

Aur.
Thanks, gentle Viola; thou art ever kind.
We'll think to-morrow still hath good in store,
And make of this a blessing for to-day,
Though good Terentia there may chide us for it.

Ter.
And thus a profitable life you'll lead,
Which hath no present time, but is made up
Entirely of to-morrows.

Aur.
Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll worship still
The blessed morrow, storehouse of all good
For wretched folks. They who lament to-day,
May then rejoice: they who in misery bend
E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed.
O! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours
May of returning joy contain? To-morrow!
The blest to-morrow! cheering, kind to-morrow!
I were a heathen not to worship thee.
(To Ter.)
Frown not again; we must not wrangle now.

Ter.
Thou dost such vain and foolish fancies cherish,
Thou forcest me to seem unkind and stern.

Aur.
Ah! be not stern. Edda will sing the song
That makes feet beat and heads nod to its tune;
And even grave Terentia will be moved
To think of pleasant things.

Aur.
(who at first nods her head lightly to the measure, now bursts into tears, taking Edda's hands between hers, and pressing them gratefully).
I thank thee: this shall be our daily song:
It cheers my heart, although these foolish tears
Seem to disgrace its sweetness.

Enter Page.
Viola
(to Aur.)
Here comes your page with lightly-bounding steps,
As if he brought good tidings.

Edda.
Grant he may!

Aur.
(eagerly).
What brings thee hither, boy?

Page
(to Aur.).
A noble stranger of the legate's train,
Come from the Holy Land, doth wait without,
Near to the garden gate, where I have left him;
He begs to be admitted to your presence;
Pleading for such indulgence as the friend
Of Ermingard, for so he bade me say.

Aur.
The friend of Ermingard! the Holy Land!
[Pausing for a moment, and then tossing up her arms in ecstasy.
O God! it is himself!
[Runs eagerly some steps towards the garden, then catching hold of Terentia, who follows her.
My head is dizzy grown; I cannot go.
Haste, lead him hither, boy.
[Waving her hand impatiently.
Fly; hearst thou not?

[Exit page.
Ter.
Be not so greatly moved. It is not likely
This should be Ermingard. The boy has seen him,
And would have known him. 'Tis belike some friend.

Aur.
No; every thrilling fibre of my frame
Cries out “it is himself.”
[Looking out.
He comes not yet: how strange! how dull! how tardy!

Ter.
Your page hath scarce had time to reach the gate,
Though he hath run right quickly.

Aur.
(pausing and looking out).
He comes not yet. Ah! if it be not he;
My sinking heart misgives me.
O now he comes! the size and air are his.

Ter.
Not to my fancy; there is no resemblance.

Aur.
Nay, but there is: and see, he wears his cloak
As he was wont to do; and o'er his cap
The shading plume so hangs.—It is! it is!
Enter Garcio; and she, breaking from Terentia, runs towards him.
My lost, my found, my blest! conceal thee not.

[Going to catch him in her arms, when Garcio takes off his plumed cap, and bows profoundly. She utters a faint cry, and shrinks back.
Gar.
Lady, I see this doffed cap hath discover'd
A face less welcome than the one you looked for.
Pardon a stranger's presence; I've presumed
Thus to intrude, as friend of Ermingard,
Who bade me—

Aur.
Bade thee! is he then at hand?

Gar.
Ah, would he were!
'Twas in a hostile and a distant land
He did commit to me these precious tokens,
Desiring me to give them to Aurora,
And with them too his sad and last farewell.

Aur.
And he is dead!

Gar.
Nay, wring not thus your hands:
He was alive and well when he entrusted me
With what I now return.

[Offering her a small casket.
Aur.
Alive and well, and sends me back my tokens!

Gar.
He sent them back to thee as Ulrick's wife;
For such, forced by intelligence from hence
Of strong authority, he did believe thee:
And in that fatal fight, which shortly follow'd,
He fought for death as shrewdly as for fame.
Fame he indeed hath earn'd.

Aur.
But not the other?
Ah, do not say he has! Among the slain
His body was not found.

Gar.
As we have learnt, the Knights of blest St. John
Did from the field of dying and of wounded
Many convey, who in their house of charity
All care and solace had; but with the names,
Recorded as within their walls receiv'd,
His is not found; therefore we must account him
With those who, shrouded in an unknown fate,
Are as the dead lamented, as the dead
For ever from our worldly care dismiss'd.

Aur.
Lamented he shall be; but from my care
Dismiss'd as are the dead—that is impossible.

Ter.
Nay, listen to advice so wise and needful:
It is the friend of Ermingard who says,
Let him within thy mind be as the dead.

Aur.
My heart repels the thought; it cannot be.
No, till his corse, bereft of life, is found,
Till this is sworn, and prov'd, and witness'd to me,
Within my breast he shall be living still.

Ter.
Wilt thou yet vainly watch night after night,
To guide his bark who never will return?

Aur.
Who never will return! And thinkest thou
To bear me down with such presumptuous words?
Heaven makes me strong against thee:
There is a Power above that calms the storm,
Restrains the mighty, gives the dead to life:
I will in humble faith my watch still keep;
Force only shall restrain me.

Gar.
Force never shall, thou noble, ardent spirit!
Thy gen'rous confidence would almost tempt me
To think it will be justified.

Aur.
Ha! sayst thou so? A blessing rest upon thee
For these most cheering words! Some guardian power
Whispers within thee.—No, we'll not despair.

Enter Ulrick.
Ul.
(to Gar.)
Your dismal mission is, I trust, fulfill'd;
Then, gentle Garcio, deem it not unkind
That I entreat you to retire; for they
Who sorrow for the dead, love to be left
To grieve without constraint.

Aur.
Thanks for your kind concern, most noble sir;
And when we needs must sorrow for the dead,
We'll freely grieve without constraint. But know,
Until our corse is found, we ring no knell.
If then your ear for funeral dirges long,
Go to some other bower; hope still is here.

Ul.
Ha! still perversely bent? what can convince thee?
This is distraction.

Aur.
Be it what it may,
It owns not thy authority. Brave youth
(to Gar.),
I owe thy gentleness some kind acknowledgment:
I'll find another time to give thee thanks.

[Exit, followed by Viola and Edda.
Ul.
Such hope is madness! yield we to her humour?
No, she must be to sober reason brought,
By steady, firm control.

Gar.
Mean you by this, my lord, a fore'd control?

Ul.
Who shall inquire my meaning?

Gar.
The holy legate, patron of th' oppress'd,
Will venture to inquire.

Ul.
Ay, as his nephew, thou presum'st, I see.
But know, bold youth, I am unused to threats.

Gar.
Yet brook them as you may. I take my leave.

[Exit.
Manent Ulrick and Terentia.
Ul.
Did I not say these cursed meddling priests—
These men of meekness, wheresoe'er they come,
Would rule and power usurp? Woe worth the hour
That brought them here!—and for this headstrong maniac.
As such, I will—

Ter.
Hush, hush! these precincts quit.
It is not well, here to expose to view
Thy weak ungovern'd passions. Thou'rt observ'd;
Retire with me, where screen'd from ev'ry eye,
With more possession of thy ruffled mind,
Thou mayst consider of thy wayward state.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A flat spot of ground on the top of a cliff, with broken craggy rocks on each side, and a large mass of rock in the middle, on which a great fire of wood is burning; a dark sea in the background; the scene to receive no light but from the fire. Two fishermen are discovered watching the fire, and supplying it with wood.

SONG.

1st Fisherman.

2d fish.
Tush, man! give o'er; thy ballads have no end,
When thou art in the mood. I hear below
A sound of many voices on the shore:
Some boat, belike, forced by the drifting current
Upon the rocks, may be in jeopardy.

1st fish.
'Tis all a mock to cut my ditty short.
Thou hast no mind to hear how it befell
That those two lovers were by kinsmen stern
O'erta'en; and how the knight,—by armed foes
Beset, a bloody combat bravely held,
And was the while robb'd of his lady fair.
And how in Paynim land they met again.
How, as a page disguised, she sought her knight,
Left on the field as lifeless. How she cheer'd him;
And how they married were, and home in state—

2d fish.
Ha' done, ha' done! a hundred times I've heard it.
My grandam lull'd me with it on her lap
Full many a night; and as my father sat,
Mending his nets upon the beach, he sang it.
I would I knew my prayers as well.—But hark!
I hear a noise again.—
[Goes to the bottom of the stage, as if he were looking down to the sea.
Along the shore
I see lights moving swiftly.

1st fish.
Some fishermen, who, later than the rest,
Their crazy boat bring in; while, to the beach,
With flaming brands, their wives and children run.
Rare sight, indeed, to take thy fancy so!

(Sings again.)
Bast.
(without).
Holla, good mate! Thou who so bravely singst!
Come down, I pray thee.

1st fish.
Who art thou who callst?

2d fish.
I know the voice; 'tis Signor Bastiani.

1st fish.
What! he, at such an hour, upon the cliff!
(Calling down.)
I cannot come. If, from my station here,
This fire untended, I were found; good sooth!
I had as lief the luckless friar be,
Who spilt the abbot's wine.

2d fish.
I'll go to him.

[Exit.
1st fish.
(muttering to himself).
Ay; leave my watch, indeed! a rare entreaty!

Enter Bastiani.
Bast.
Wilt thou not go? A boat near to the shore,
In a most perilous state, calls for assistance:
Who is like thee, good Stephen, bold and skilful?
Haste to its aid, if there be pity in thee,
Or any Christian grace. I will, meantime,
Thy beacon watch; and should the lady come,
Excuse thy absence. Haste; make no reply.

1st fish.
I will; God help us all!

[Exit.
Bast.
Here is, indeed, a splendid noble fire
Left me in ward. It makes the darkness round,
To its fierce light oppos'd, seem thick and palpable,
And closed o'er head, like to the pitchy cope
Of some vast cavern.—Near at hand, methinks,
Soft female voices speak: I'll to my station. [Retires from the front of the stage behind the fire.


Enter Aurora, Terentia and Viola.
Viola.
A rousing light! Good Stephen hath full well
Obey'd your earnest bidding.—Fays and witches
Might round its blaze their midnight revelry
Right fitly keep.

Ter.
Ay; thou lov'st wilds and darkness,
And fire and storms, and things unsooth and strange:
This suits thee well. Methinks, in gazing on it,
Thy face a witch-like cagerness assumes.

Viola.
I'll be a goblin then, and round it dance.
Did not Aurora say we thus should hold
This nightly vigil. Yea, such were her words.

Aur.
They were light bubbles of some mantling thought,
That now is flat and spiritless; and yet,
If thou art so inclin'd, ask not my leave,
Dance if thou wilt.

Viola.
Nay, not alone, sweet sooth!
Witches, themselves, some fiend-like partners find.

Ter.
And so mayst thou. Look yonder; near the flame
A crested figure stands. That is not Stephen.

Aur.
(eagerly).
A crested figure! Where? O call to it!

[Bast. comes forward.
Ter.
'Tis Bastiani.

Aur.
Ay; 'tis Bastiani:
'Tis he, or any one; 'tis ever thus;
So is my fancy mock'd.

Bast.
If I offend you, madam, 'tis unwillingly
Stephen has for awhile gone to the beach,
To help some fishermen, who, as I guess,
Against the tide would force their boat to land.
He'll soon return; meantime, I did entreat him
To let me watch his beacon. Pardon me;
I had not else intruded; though full oft
I've clamber'd o'er these cliffs, e'en at this hour,
To see the ocean from its sabled breast
The flickering gleam of these bright flames return.

Aur.
Make no excuse, I pray thee. I am told
By good Terentia thou dost wish me well,
Though Ulrick long has been thy friend. I know
A wanderer on the seas in early youth
Thou wast, and still canst feel for all storm-toss'd
On that rude element.

Bast.
'Tis true, fair lady: I have been, ere now,
Where such a warning light, sent from the shore,
Had saved some precious lives; which makes the task,
I now fulfil, more grateful.

Aur.
How many leagues from shore may such a light
By the benighted mariner be seen?

Bast.
Some six or so, he will descry it faintly,
Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering
From some cav'd rock that brows the dreary waste;
Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house,
Which through the silent night the traveller spies
Upon his doubtful way.

Viola.
Fie on such images!
Thou shouldst have liken'd it to things more seemly.
Thou mightst have said the peasant's evening fire
That from his upland cot, through winter's gloom,
What time his wife their evening meal prepares,
Blinks on the traveller's eye, and cheers his heart;
Or signal-torch, that from my lady's bower
Tells wand'ring knights the revels are begun;
Or blazing brand, that from the vintage-house
O' long October nights, through the still air
Looks rousingly.—To have our gallant beacon
Ta'en for a lazar-house!

Bast.
Well, maiden, as thou wilt: thy gentle mistress
Of all these things may choose what likes her best,
To paint more clearly how her noble fire
The distant seamen cheer'd, who bless the while
The hand that kindled it.

Aur.
Shall I be bless'd—
By wand'ring men returning to their homes?
By those from shipwreck sav'd, again to cheer
Their wives, their friends, their kindred? Bless'd by those!
And shall it not a blessing call from heaven?
It will; my heart leaps at the very thought:
The seamen's blessing rests upon my head,
To charm my wand'rer home.—
Heap on more wood:
Let it more brightly blaze.—Good Bastiani,
Hie to thy task, and we'll assist thee gladly.

[As they begin to occupy themselves with the fire, the sound of distant voices, singing in harmony, is heard under the stage as if ascending the cliff.
Aur.
What may it be?

Viola.
The songs of Paradise,
But that our savage rocks and gloomy night
So ill agree with peaceful soothing bliss.

Ter.
No blessed spirits in these evil days
Hymn, through the stilly darkness, strains of grace.

Aur.
Nay, list; it comes again.

[Voices heard nearer.
Ter.
The mingled sound comes nearer, and betrays
Voices of mortal men.

Viola.
In such sweet harmony!
I never heard the like.

Aur.
They must be good and holy who can utter
Such heavenly sounds.

Bast.
I've surely heard before
This solemn chorus chaunted by the knights,
The holy brothers of Jerusalem.
It is a carol sung by them full oft,
When saved from peril dire of flood or field.

Aur.
The Knights of blest St. John from Palestine!
Alas! why feel I thus? knowing too well
They cannot bring the tidings I would hear.

[Chorus rises again very near.
Viola.
List, list! they've gain'd the summit of the cliff:
They are at hand; their voices are distinct;
Yea, e'en the words they sing.

[A solemn song or hymn, sung in harmony, heard without.
Enter six Knights of St. John of Jerusalem in procession, with their followers behind them, who do not advance upon the stage, but remain partly concealed behind the rocks.
Aur.
Speak to them, Bastiani; thou'rt a soldier;
Thy mind is more composed.—I pray thee do.

[Motioning Bast. to accost them.
Bast.
This lady, noble warriors, greets you all,
And offers you such hospitality
As this late hour and scanty means afford.
Will't please ye round this blazing fire to rest?
After such perilous tossing on the waves,
You needs must be forspent.

1st knight.
We thank you, sir, and this most noble dame,
Whose beacon hath from shipwreck sav'd us. Driven
By adverse winds too near your rocky coast,
Warn'd by its friendly light, we stood to sea:
But soon discov'ring that our crazy bark
Had sprung a dangerous leak, we took our boat
And made for shore. The nearest point of land
Beneath this cliff, with peril imminent,
By help of some good fishermen we gain'd;
And here, in God's good mercy, safe we are
With grateful hearts.

Aur.
We praise that mercy also
Which hath preserv'd you.

1st knight.
Lady, take our thanks.
And may the vessel of that friend beloved,
For whom you watch, as we have now been told,
Soon to your shore its welcome freight convey!

Aur.
Thanks for the wish; and may its prayers be heard!
Renowned men ye are; holy and brave;
In every field of honour and of arms
Some of your noble brotherhood are found:
Perhaps the valiant knights I now behold,
Did on that luckless day against the Souldan
With brave De Villeneuve for the cross contend.
If this be so, you can, perhaps, inform me
Of one who in the battle fought, whose fate
Is still unknown.

1st knight.
None of us all, fair dame, so honour'd were
As in that field to be, save this young knight.
Sir Bertram, wherefore, in thy mantle wrapt,
Standst thou so far behind? Speak to him, lady:
For in that battle he right nobly fought,
And may, belike, wot of the friend you mention'd.
Aur. (going up eagerly to the young knight). Didst thou there fight? then surely thou didst know
The noble Ermingard, who from this isle
With valiant Conrad went:—
What fate had he upon that dismal day?

Young knight.
Whate'er his fate in that fell fight might be,
He now is as the dead.

Aur.
Is as the dead! ha! then he is not dead:
He's living still. O tell me—tell me this!
Say he is still alive; and though he breathe
In the foul pest-house; though a wretched wand'rer,
Wounded and maim'd; yea, though his noble form
With chains and stripes and slavery be disgraced,
Say he is living still, and I will bless thee.
Thou knowst—full well thou knowst, but wilt not speak.
What means that heavy groan? For love of God, speak to me!
[Tears the mantle from his face, with which he had concealed it.
My Ermingard! My blessed Ermingard!
Thy very living self restored again!
Why turn from me?

Er.
Ah! callst thou this restor'd?

Aur.
Do I not grasp thy real living hand?
Dear, dear!—so dear! most dear!—my lost, my found!
Thou turnst and weepst; art thou not so to me?

Er.
Ah! would I were! alas, alas, I'm lost:
Sever'd from thee for ever.

Aur.
How so? What mean such words?

Er.
(shaking his head, and pointing to the cross on his mantle).
Look on this emblem of a holy vow,
Which binds and weds me to a heavenly love:
We are, my sweet Aurora, far divided;
Out bliss is wreck'd for ever.

Aur.
No; thou art still alive, and that is bliss.
Few moments since, what would I not have sacrificed,
To know that in the lapse of many years
I should again behold thee?—I had been—
How strongly thou art moved!—Thou heedst me not.

Ter.
(to Aur.)
Were it not better he should leave this spot?
Let me conduct him to my quiet bower.
Rest and retirement may compose his mind.

Aur.
Ay, thou art right, Terentia.

Ter.
(to the other knights).
Noble knights,
And these your followers! gentle Bastiani
Will to a place of better comfort lead you,
Where ye shall find some hospitable cheer,
And couches for repose.—Have we your leave
That your companion be a little time
Ta'en from your company?

1st knight.
You have, good lady,
Most readily we grant it.—Heaven be with you,
And this your lovely charge!
(To Bast.)
Sir, to your guidance
We yield ourselves right gladly.

[Exeunt knights, &c., by a path between the rocks, and Aurora and Ermingard, &c., by another path.

SCENE II.

An ante-room in the house of Aurora. Enter Garcio, beckoning the page, who presently enters by the opposite side.
Gar.
Come hither, little friend, who didst before
Serve me so willingly. Wilt thou from me
Bear to Sir Ermingard a friendly message;
And say his old companion—

Page.
Nay, I dare not.
The holy legate and the pope besides
Might not disturb him now; for dame Terentia
Hath so decreed. He is in her apartment,
And yonder is the door.

[Pointing off the stage.
Gar.
From which e'en now
I saw thee turn?

Page.
I listen'd not for harm.

Gar.
Do I accuse thee, boy? Is he alone?
Or is thy lady with him?

Page.
That I know not.
Do folks groan heaviest when they are alone?

Gar.
Full oft they do; for then without restraint
They utter what they feel.

Page.
Then, by my beard, I think he be alone!
For as I slipp'd on tiptoe to the door,
I heard him groan so deeply!

Gar.
Thou heardst him groan?

Page.
Ay; deeply.
I thought when he return'd, we should be merry:
So starting up at the good tidings, quickly,
All darkling as I was, I donn'd my clothes:
But, by my beard! I'd go to bed again,
Did I not long most curiously to know
What will betide.

Gar.
Speak softly, boy; thou, and thy beard to boot,
Will badly fare if Ulrick should o'erhear thee.
I know his angry voice: he is at hand.

Page.
Where shall I go?—He will not tarry here:
He will but pass to the adjoining hall.
In this dark nook I'll hide me from his sight,
Lest he should chide me.

[Retires behind the pillar.
Gar.
Is there room for me?
He'll greet me too with little courtesy,
If I remain to front him.

[Retires behind the pillar also.
Enter Ulrick and Bastiani, speaking as they anter.
Ul.
And still thou sayst, forbear!

Bast.
Pass on, my lord.

Ul.
No, by the holy rood! I'll keep in sight
Of that accursed door which gave him entrance.
An hour's sand well hath run, which undisturb'd
They have in converse or endearments spent.
And yet I must forbear!

Bast.
They have not told the truth who told you so;
It is not yet so long.

Ul.
It is! it is!
I have within these walls, who for my service
More faithfully have watch'd than Bastiani—
Ay, or Terentia either.

Bast.
Wrong us not.
Since Ermingard returns by holy vows
So bound, that as a rival to your love,
You may, with honest thoughts of her you love,
No more consider him; all jealousy
Within your noble breast should be extinct.
Then think not to disturb these few short moments
Of unavailing sorrow; that were cruel.

Ul.
Thou pitiest others well; I am tormented,
And no one pities me.—That cursed beacon!
I said in vain this night should be the last:
It was a night too much: the sea had now
Roll'd o'er his lifeless corse; I, been at peace.

Bast.
For mercy, good my lord! curb such fell thoughts:
They bear no kindred to your better nature.

Ul.
My better nature! Mock me not with words;
Who loves like me, no nature hath but one,
And that so keen—Would the engulfing waves
Had fifty fathom deep entombed him!

Bast.
Speak not so loud: pass on; we are within
The observation of a prying household.
Pass on, and presently I'll bring you notice
Of what you would. I pray you, stop not here!

[Exeunt Ul. and Bast., while Gar. and page come from their concealment.
Page.
He would have chid me shrewdly.

Gar.
He is, indeed, an angry, ruthless man,
And Bastiani no slight task will have
To keep his wrath from mischief. To the legate
I'll hie me straight, and ask his better counsel:
So far thee well, sweet child.

Page.
Nay, take me with you; I'm afraid to stay.
I can my prayers and Ave-Maria say,
The legate will not chide me.

Gar.
Nay, stay behind; thou art secure, poor elf!
I'll soon return again.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The apartment of Terentia: Ermingard and Aurora are discovered with Terentia, who is withdrawn to a distance from them. Ermingard is seated with his body thrown back, and his face covered with both his hands, while Aurora stands by him in the attitude of one who is entreating or soothing him.
Erm.
O cease! Thy words, thy voice, thy hand on mine,
That touch so dearly felt, do but enhance
An agony too great.—Untoward fate!
Thus to have lost thee!

Aur.
Say not, thou hast lost me.
Heaven will subdue our minds, and we shall still,
With what is spared us from our wreck of bliss,
Be happy.

Erm.
Most unblest, untoward fate!
After that hapless battle, where in vain
I courted death, I kept my name conceal'd.
E'en brave De Villeneuve, master of our Order,
When he received my vows, did pledge his faith
Not to declare it. Thus I kept myself
From all communication with these shores,
Perversely forwarding my rival's will.
O blind and credulous fool!

Aur.
Nay, do not thus upbraid thyself: Heaven will'd it.
Be not so keenly moved: there still is left
What to the soul is dear.—We'll still be happy.

Erm.
The chasten'd pilgrim o'er his lady's grave
Sweet tears may shed, and may without reproach
Thoughts of his past love blend with thoughts of heaven.
He whom the treach'ry of some faithless maid
Hath robb'd of bliss, may, in the sturdy pride
Of a wrong'd man, the galling ill endure;
But sever'd thus from thee, so true, so noble,
By vows that all the soul's devotion claim,
It makes me feel—may God forgive the crime!
A very hatred of all saintly things.
Fool—rash and credulous fool! to lose thee thus!

Aur.
Nay, say not so: thou still art mine. Short while,
I would have given my whole of life besides
To've seen but once again thy passing form—
Thy face—thine eyes turn'd on me for a moment;
Or only to have heard through the still air
Thy voice distinctly call me, or the sound
Of thy known steps upon my lonely floor:
And shall I then, holding thy living hand
In love and honour, say, thou art not mine?

Erm.
(shaking his head).
This state—this sacred badge!

Aur.
O no! that holy cross upon thy breast
Throws such a charm of valorous sanctity
O'er thy lov'd form: my thoughts do forward glance
To deeds of such high fame by thee achieved;
That e'en methinks the bliss of wedded love
Less dear, less noble is, than such strong bonds
As may, without reproach, unite us still.

Erm.
O creature of a gen'rous constancy!
Thou but the more distractest me! Fool, fool!
[Starting from his seat, and pacing to and fro distractedly.
Mean, misbelieving fool!—I thought her false,
Credulous alone of evil—I have lost,
And have deserv'd to lose her.

Aur.
Oh! be not thus! Have I no power to soothe thee?
See, good Terentia weeps, and fain would try
To speak thee comfort.

Ter.
(coming forward).
Ay; bethink thee well,
Most noble Ermingard, heaven grants thee still
All that is truly precious of her love,—
Her true and dear regard.

Erm.
Then heaven forgive my black ingratitude,
For I am most unthankful!

Ter.
Nay, consider,
Her heart is thine: you are in mind united.

Erm.
United! In the farthest nook o' th' earth
I may in lonely solitude reflect,
That in some spot—some happier land she lives,
And thinks of me. Is this to be united?

Aur.
I cannot, in a page's surtout clad,
Thy steps attend as other maids have done
To other knights.

Erm.
No, by the holy rood!
Thou canst not, and thou shouldst not. Rather would I,
Dear as thou art, weep o'er thee in thy grave,
Than see thee so degraded.

Aur.
Hear me out.
I cannot so attend thee—noon and eve
Thy near companion be! but I have heard
That near the sacred houses of your order,
Convents of maids devout in Holy Land
Establish'd are—maids who in deeds of charity
To pilgrims and to all in warfare maim'd,
In sacred warfare for the holy cross,
Are deem'd the humble partners of your zeal.

Erm.
Ay, such there are; but what availeth this?

Aur.
There will I dwell, a vow'd and humble sister.
We shall not far be sever'd. The same winds
That do o' nights through your still cloisters sigh,
Our quiet cells visiting with mournful harmony,
Shall lull my pillow too. Our window'd towers
Shall sometimes show me on the neighbouring plains,
Amidst thy brave companions, thy mail'd form
Crested with glory, on thy pawing steed
Returning from the wars. And when at last
Thou art in sickness laid—who will forbid
The dear sad pleasure—like a holy bride
I'll by thy death-bed stand, and look to heaven
Where all bless'd union is. O! at the thought,
Methinks this span of life to nothing shrinks,
And we are bless'd already. Thou art silent:
Dost thou despise my words?

Erm.
O no! speak to me thus: say what thou wilt:
I am subdued. And yet these bursting tears!
My heart is rent in twain: I fear—I fear
I am rebellious still.
[Kneeling, and taking both her hands between his, and kissing them with great devotion.
School me or chide me now: do what thou wilt:
I am resign'd and humble.

Ter.
(advancing to them with alarm).
Hear ye that noise without?—They force the door,
And angry Ulrick comes.

Erm.
(starting from his knees furiously).
Thank heaven this hated rival front to front
Shall now oppose me! God avenge the right!

Enter Ulrick, bursting into the room, followed by Bastiani.
Ul.
(to Erm.)
Vow'd, holy knight; from all vain earthly love
Pure and divided; in a lady's chamber
Do we surprise thee? Quit it instantly:
It is a place for thee unfit: and know,
In sacred wardship will I keep that maid.

Erm.
In sacred wardship! O unblushing face!
What of thy baseness, treachery, and falsehood
I could declare, my choking voice forbids,
Which utterance hath not.—Here's a ready tongue—

[Drawing his sword.
Defend thee, then, and heaven defend the right!
[They both draw, and fight furiously, Bastiani endeavouring in vain to interpose; when the legate and his train, with Garcio and the Knights of St. John, enter, and separate them.
Leg.
Put up your weapons: to the holy church
This cause belongs, and to her high award
I charge you both that you in all humility
Submit. Lord Ulrick, to the pope perforce
You must account of this your wardship give,
Or by yourself in person, or your deputy,
To Rome forthwith despatch'd.
[Ul. bows sullenly.
As for the lady, to my guardian care,
Till we before the holy father come,
She must commit herself. And thou, Sir Ermingard,
Shalt to the sovereign pontiff and the patron
Of thy most valiant order, fully show
Wherein thou'st been aggriev'd. If the bless'd cross
Thou hast assum'd, supposing other vows
That did before engage thee, were annull'd,
By false reports deceived; the holy Urban,
Our wise enlighten'd father, will, I trust,
A dispensation grant, that shall empower thee
To doff with honour this thy sacred mantle,
And in its stead a bridegroom's robe assume.

[Ermingard and Aurora both embrace the legate's knees, who raises them up gently.
It is enough; forbear, forbear, my children;
I am too richly thank'd.
And now we must with sober minds confer:
For when the wind is fair, we sail for Rome.
Some days, perhaps, it may adversely blow—
Perhaps some weeks; for I have known it oft
Hold vessels bound.
Aur.
(tossing up her arms joyfully as she speaks).
No; it will change to-morrow.

Erm.
Dear ardent soul! canst thou command the winds?

[Aur. shrinks back ashamed.
Leg.
Blush not, sweet maid; nor check thy ardent thoughts;
That gen'rous, buoyant spirit is a power
Which in the virtuous mind doth all things conquer.
It bears the hero on to arduous deeds:
It lifts the saint to heaven.

[Curtain drops.

ROMIERO:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Don Romiero, a noble Spaniard.
• Don Guzman, his friend.
• Don Maurice, a youth in love with Beatrice.
• Don Sebastian, father of Zorada.
• Jerome, domestic of Romiero.
• Pietro, domestic of Romiero.
• Mariners, passengers, domestics, &c.

WOMEN

• Zorada, the wife of Romiero.
• Beatrice, her friend.
• Nurse.

Scene in or near the castle of Romiero, by the seashore of the Mediterranean. Time, during the reign of Peter the Cruel, King of Castile, towards the middle of the 14th century.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The sea-shore after a storm, with the masts of a wrecked vessel seen above the water at a distance, and casks and various chests, boards, &c. floating on the waves. Enter shipwrecked mariners and passengers, followed by Sebastian, who keeps apart from the others.
1st pass.
Well, sirs! to tread on firm dry earth again
Makes the heart glad and thankful.

1st mar.
With good cause;
For a dry grave at home is, after all,
The secret wish and prayer of every seaman,
Ay, even the boldest of us.
None hath so long or roughly lived at sea
As to be careless where his bones are laid,—
In sacred ground, or in the gulfy deep.
And thou, too, thinkst so, if I read thee right.

[To 2d passenger.
2d pass.
Ay, so in truth thou dost; I said my prayers
Devoutly as the tempest louder wax'd,
Nor am ashamed to own it.

2d mar.
Nor needs to be so; seaman as I am,
Let me, as oft as fortune beckons me,
On summer seas or rough December's waves,
Career it boldly with my jolly mates;
But let me die at last in mine own cot,
With all my kinsfolk round me. My poor wife!
She listens to the winds when others sleep,
And thinks,—Well, well! we are all safe on shore.

3d mar.
But, saving this, what have we else to cheer us?
Men on dry land are hungry and lack food;
We cannot live on safety only. See,
Here comes a countryman. Ho! friend, I say! [Calling off the stage.
(Voice answering without.)

What dost thou say? I cannot hear thy words.

3d mar.
Come hither, if thou hast a Christian heart,
Or any charity; come near, I pray thee.

Enter Pietro.
Pie.
What is your will with me?

3d mar.
I pray thee, friend,
What shore is this? Be there or food, or shelter,
Or Christian pity in these parts? Thou seest
What miserable shipwreck'd men we are.

Pie.
Yes, ye are cast upon a shore, where shelter
And Christian pity never are withheld
From those who want them. Seest thou through the trees
That castle? There a noble lady dwells,
Who will have pity on you.

3d mar.
Thank Providence for this! Your noble ladies,
When once they take to goodness, are most bountiful:
The best of all; the men to them are nothing.

1st pass.
She hath no lord then?

Pie.
He is absent now,
Kept at the king's high court, as it is said,
But my opinion is—

3d mar.
Whate'er it be,
That is not our concern. What is his name?

Pie.
They call him Don Romiero.

Seb.
(advancing hastily).
What saidst thou? Is he absent?

Pie.
He is, but his good lady will relieve you,
Ye need not fear for that.

Seb.
We will not fear. Ye love that lady, then,
Who is, ye say, so good?

Pie.
How should we else? A very brute would love her.

Seb.
Yes, thou sayst well; she was e'en from her birth—
I mean, all ladies sprung from noble blood
Are, from their birth, to generous actions train'd;
At least, it should be so.

Pie.
And is so, friend; for I have oft observ'd
Good birth and breeding, as in my own lady,
With gracious kindness join'd.

Seb.
What is her name?

Pie.
Donna Zorada. Thou hast heard, belike,
How her poor father—

Seb.
(turning away).
No; I hear no stories;
I am a man withdrawn from worldly coil,
Who hears or cares for nothing.

Pie.
(to 3d mar.)
This is no mariner? and he speaks strangely.

3d mar.
The strangest thing is that he spoke at all.
We took him up at sea from a small boat,
Which, by the moonlight, we descried afar,
Like a black cockle on the glimmering waves;
But whether earth or hell had sent him to us,
We doubted much.

1st mar.
Nay; when the hurricane wax'd to its pitch
We scarcely doubted, and were once resolved
To cast him overboard. Yet, ne'ertheless,
He hath escaped; and God be praised, we did not.

Pie.
Hush! he returns again. Go on, poor souls,
In lucky hour ye come; for in that wood
Not many paces hence, amongst the trees,
Donna Zorada takes her morning walk;
You'll find her there. Come, I will lead you to her:
And, as we go, there are some words of counsel
Which I shall give to you. They may be useful;
For age, and some small share of shrewd observance,
Have made me, though I say it, fit to counsel.

1st mar.
Do so, good man, and heaven reward thy kindness!

[Exeunt all but Sebastian.
Seb.
(alone).
So near her! Led, as by the hand of heaven,
Even to her very door! And I shall shortly
See her again, and hold her to my heart!
My child! my child! Oh! when those gentle eyes
Look on my woe-worn face and alter'd form,
And these coarse weeds, how will thy piteous heart
Swell e'en to bursting! In that wood hard by,—
So near me! Blessed heaven hath brought me here.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A wood, with various walks and alleys cut through it. Enter Zorada and Beatrice, speaking as they enter.
Bea.
In truth, I slept it out. At times, indeed,
A sound came to my ears, as it had been
The distant roar of wheels, and then I dreamt
Of coursing chariots and approaching crowds,
And courtly tournaments, and tried in vain
To cast my richest mantle o'er my form,
To meet the coming show!

Zor.
Thy mantle for the show!

Bea.
Yes, but perversely,
Still, as one tassell'd end across my shoulders
I had composed, the others to the ground
Fell dangling all awry. Then I look'd down,
And, O sight of confusion! Canst thou guess
What saw I then?

Zor.
Some fearful thing, no doubt.

Bea.
My own bare feet unslipper'd and unhosed,
That on the chequer'd floor began to move
In dancing measure. Yea, the very blood
Rush'd to my cheeks; I felt it in my dream.

Zor.
How could a dream so vain find harbourage
In thy fantastic brain, my little friend,
On such a dreadful night?

Bea.
It was the tempest's sound that brought the dream.

Zor.
So grand a cause producing thoughts so vain!

Bea.
Who takes account of that? Thou wert awake,
Else thou, belike, hadst ta'en the mighty blast
For the quick waving of some gallant's hat
To cool thy glowing cheek, or the soft winnowing
Of outstretch'd pinions—Cupid's wings, perhaps;
Or those of downy swans, as I have seen them,
Scared from the sedgy margin of the lake,
Bending their hurried flight across thy path.

Zor.
I was, indeed, awake, and heard with awe
The war of elements, whose mingled roar
Brought to mine ear the howl of raging fiends,
The lash of mountain billows, the wild shrieks
Of sinking wretches; and at intervals
Cross'd strangely with the near distinctive sounds
Of clatt'ring casements, creaking beams and doors
Burst from their fastenings, swinging in the blast.
It was a fearful night; and many a soul,
On sea and land, have found a dismal end.

Bea.
Ay, we shall hear sad tales of this ere long,
When seated round our evening fire. Alas!
It will be piteous; but, the ill then past,
It will be soft and pleasing piteousness.

Zor.
Sad tales, I fear! O how my sympathy
Follows the seaman's hardy, perilous life;
And the poor passengers, torn from their homes
To toss upon the rude and fathomless deep,
Who shall no more on the dry land set foot,
Nor find a peaceful rest e'en for their bones.
It is a dismal thought.

Bea.
And yet how fair and bright the morning shines,
As if it laugh'd at all the late turmoil!
There's not a cloud in the whole azure sky.

Zor.
None, save those little wanderers, pure as snow,
Those wild bewilder'd things, so hasting on
Like sea-birds to their rock.—What men are these?

Enter Mariners, &c.
1st mar.
We are, an' please ye, good and noble lady,
Poor shipwreck'd seamen, cast upon your shore;
Our all is lost; and we are spent and faint
For want of food.

Zor.
Ye shall not want it long.
Go to the castle, where all needful succour
Will be provided for you.—From what port?
But stop not now to answer idle questions.
Are ye all mariners?

1st mar.
(pointing to pass.)
Those men are merchants;
And he who lingers yonder 'midst the bushes,
Is one we found at sea, some leagues from shore.
We know not what he is.

Zor.
Why keeps he thus aloof? Call to him, friend.

1st mar.
(calling off the stage.)
Ho! there; come this way, sir; the lady calls ye.

Zor.
He has a noble air, though coarsely clad.
How is it that he moves so tardily?

3d mar.
He's wayward, lady; neither mores nor speaks
Like other men.

Zor.
Enter Sebastian, bending his head, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
[He bows in silence, and she seems agitaled. (To the mariners, &c.)
Pass on, my friends; this lady will conduct you.
Wilt thou, my Beatrice, do this kind office?
And I will follow shortly. Tell my people
To serve these shipwreek'd strangers bountifully.

Mariners, &c.
(speaking all together).
God bless your liberal heart, my noble lady!

[Exeunt all but Zor. and Seb.
Zor.
(eagerly).
Who art thou?

Seb.
Hush, till they be farther off.

Zor.
Oh! is it thou?

Seb.
Stand from me; no embrace;
They may look back and see us.

Zor.
How slow they move! Will they ne'er gain the thicket?
My yearning heart will burst; how slow they move!
(Stands looking after them impatiently and trembling all over for a few minutes.)
Now they are out of sight.
(Rushing into his arms.)
My father! my dear father!

Seb.
My dear child!

Zor.
Oh! art thou here in dread? come here to see me
In peril of discovery? too, too kind!
Dear father! kind, and good, and dear to me,
How and where'er thou art. I fear, I fear
Thou art not as I would: tears in thine eyes,
And anguish on thy face! How hast thou fared?

Seb.
Thou shalt hear all when I have words to tell thee.

Zor.
Not now; take breath awhile, and be composed.
Lean on the grass, and I will fetch thee nourishment.

Seb.
(preventing her from going).
Not now, dear child
I am composed again, and from my side
Thou shalt not move, till I have told thee all.
(After a pause.)
Thou knowst the bitter wrongs and foul affront,
Which my ungrateful monarch put upon me,
As meet reward for many years of service.
Ay, though I say it, valiant, faithful service
In field and council.

Zor.
I know it all too well; a burning shame
That he should so requite thee! Some base wretch
Hath tempted him with—

Seb.
Say his noble nature,—
I think it once was noble,—was abused
By the base machinations of my foes.
Say what thou wilt; I was a man, a soldier,
And sought revenge, that baleful remedy
For bitterness of heart.

Zor.
Nay, pause, I pray you! do not tell it now:
Thou art too much distress'd.

Seb.
No, hear it now; 'tis short, and when once told,
One misery is past. Leagued with three chiefs,
Resentful as myself, we did in secret
Derise the means, and soon had reach'd our mark.

Zor.
Your mark! O what was that?

Seb.
I see the fearful meaning of thine eye;
But be not so disturb'd.—Our mark indeed
Was vengeance, but not murder.—On his throne
We meant to place a nobler prince, whose hand
Had even justice to his subjects dealt.
We meant to place on Pedro's worthles brow
That which became it better than a crown.

Zor.
I understand;—a monk's unseemly cowl.
I'm glad you did not mean to shed his blood.

Seb.
My gentle child, we meant but as I say.
And while revenging my especial wrongs,
We should have freed Castile from a hard master,
Who now sheds noble blood upon the scaffold,
As lavishly as hinds the common water
Of village pool cast o'er their arid fields.
And yet to kindle in our native land
The flames of civil discord, even this
Has often rack'd my mind with many doubts,
Recoiling thoughts, and feelings of remorse.

Zor.
Ha! that indeed had been a fearful consequence,
Had your concerted enterprise succeeded.
But speak not now of this. How did you fail?

Seb.
Amongst our number, one accursed traitor
Like Judas lurk'd, and to the royal ear
Divulged the whole.—But we were warn'd of this,
And fled, each as he might. I gain'd the coast,
And lay disguised till I could find a boat,
In which I reach'd last night that founder'd bark,
Whose slender mast just peeps above the surge,
Like some black wizard's wand, token of ill.

Zor.
No, not of ill, dear father, but of good.
'Tis heaven hath sent thee here.
My lord did write to me some distant hints
Of your sad story. When he shall return,
He will protect you. Cherish'd here with us,
You shall in secret live, till fair occasion
Shall offer to convey you where you would,—
Some land of safety.

Seb.
Thy lord's return! no, no! beware of that!
He may not be my friend.—Nay, it is said
That he and others, from their kindred ties
Suspected as abettors of our treason,
To clear themselves, have sworn unto the king,
Dead or alive, wherever they may find us,
Our bodies to deliver to his power.

Zor.
'Tis false! thou wrongst Romiero.
Do not believe it. Some false Judas also
Hath, in this point, deceived you. No, he did not—
He swore no oath so cruel and so base.
Do not believe it.—Hark! the castle bell!

[Bell sounds.
Seb.
Some traveller of note must be arrived.

Zor.
And I must quit my dear and honour'd parent,
With heartless ceremony to receive
A most unwelcome guest.—
Enter that tangled path; it leads to shelter,
An aged woman's cot, where thou mayst rest
And have refreshment. She will minister
To thy necessity. O woe is me!
That any hand but mine should have that office!

Seb.
When shall we meet again?

Zor.
At fall of eve beneath the castle wall,
Near to the northern postern. Heaven watch o'er thee!
There's some one coming! part as we were strangers,
Without one sign of love. That is the path.

[Exit Sebastian; and, after a pause, Don Maurice enters by the opposite side.
Maur.
Good tidings! Don Romiero is arrived.

Zor.
My lord return'd? and art thou sure 'tis he?

Maur.
Yes, I am sure; why should I doubt it, madam?
His train is in the court, and joyful vassals,
Hearing the notice bell, crowd in to greet him.
I have not seen him yet, but am in haste
Come to apprise you of it.
[Observing Zorada motion with her hand, and point as to something at a distance.
What man is that to whom you motion so?

Zor.
A shipwreck'd stranger, who inquired his way,
But was about to take the erring path.

Maur.
He has a stately air, though mean his garb;
I'll go myself and guide him through the wood.

Zor.
No, no! I pray thee, let us to the castle.

Maur.
I'll follow thee: but, 'faith, I fain would go
And hold some parley with that stranger. Surely
He is no common man.

Zor.
I do beseech thee!

Maur.
I'll soon return.

[Going.
Zor.
O stay, Don Maurice, stay.

Maur.
Why? How is this?

Zor.
I cannot stir without thee.

Maur.
What is the matter, lady? You are pale.

Zor.
I've wrench'd my foot: I'm lame; I'm faint with pain.
I pray thee let me lean upon thine arm.

Maur.
Ay, to the world's end. Nay, lean all thy weight,
And let me bear thee up: thou dost but grasp me
As if to hold me fast. The pain is violent.

Zor.
No, it is better now; 'tis almost gone,
But I walk lamely still. Let us proceed.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An open entrance hall in the castle. Jerome, vassals, and domestics, are discovered in waiting. Enter Pietro.
Pie.
(to Jer.)
So, our good master is return'd in safety:
May I not see him?

Jer.
No, not now, good Pietro.

Pie.
Not now! how so? It is my privilege,
Which he has granted to this hoary head,
To see him, unreproved, whene'er I list.
I needs must greet him.

Jer.
Thou hadst better not!
Donna Zorada is not in the castle
To welcome his return: till he hath seen her,
I think thy courtesy would have small chance
Of courteous reception.

Pie.
Well, be it so: what changes wedlock makes,
That Don Romiero should be so possess'd!
He should have wedded earlier, as I think,
Or not so young a bride. For, as they say,
Let all things be in right and due proportion.
Let not the hart play gambols with the fawn.
Plant not a sapling olive by the side
Of the broad oak. Link not the bony staghound—

Jer.
Truce with thy wisdom, now! see, he is coming.

Enter Romiero, in a hurried, impatient manner, followed by Guzman.
Rom.
Not yet return'd! Go, Jerome, to the wood,
That is her favourite walk.

Jer.
Please you, my lord, I have sent Blas already
To search the wood, and now he is return'd.

Enter Blas.
Rom.
Hast found her, Blas?

Blas.
Yes, she will soon be here;
She's coming from the wood.

Rom.
With steps, I warrant,
Light as the bounding roe.

Blas.
Nay, good my lord,
Donna Zorada, somewhat lame, I guess,
Comes with slow steps, supported on the arm
Of young Don Maurice.

Rom.
I'll bear her in my arms: she is in pain.
The very pressure of the velvet turf
Will do her injury.

[Exit hastily.
Guz.
(to Pie.)
Thou wearst a surly smile upon thy face,
Good Pietro, mine old friend; what may it mean?
Thy lord, methinks, is a right tender husband.

Pie.
Ay, marry is he! I remember well
His lady mother urged him oft to wed.
“Become a woman's toy!” quoth he: “am I
Of such soft matter form'd, that you, forsooth
Would make a husband of me?” Then he'd speak
Of women, even the fairest and the best,
With such sharp taunts, that she, good lady, sigh'd,
And in despair forbore all further plea.

Guz.
But dost thou think he spake unfeignedly?

Pie.
Why should he feign with her who gave him birth?
She was a woman of good parts, well taught
Sober, and wise.

Guz.
And yet it might be so.

Pie.
I cannot tell; for now, as I remember,
His love for Donna Laura none suspected,
Till he was found at midnight in the vault
Lamenting o'er her grave.
'Twas said that many a night a sheeted spectre
Haunted the spot: that spectre was Romiero.

Guz.
It might be so: and yet he is not close,
Concealing what he feels, but with his friends
Free and confiding.

Pie.
Yes, St. Lawrence bless him.
His thoughts must have their vent; but yet I say,
And know it well, none did suspect his love
Till he was found lamenting o'er her grave.
Ah! many a cheerful face hides careful heart!
This is a saying well approved by all.
For sound experience teaches many things,
Which, as my mother, heaven rest her soul,
Was wont to say—

Guz.
Excuse me now, good Pietro;
I'll stay and hear it all another time;
I am in haste.

[Exit.
Pie.
(looking after him with displeasure).
He too in haste! That light and heedless youth,
Full of their youthful sports, should be impatient
When sober serious men begin to speak,
Is nothing marvellous; it was always so.
But now the evil still goes on increasing,
And men of middle age and understanding
Are e'en as light and foolish as the young.
An evil sign, I trow, of evil times.
Should it go on increasing, by my certes!
Ere I have spoken half a sentence, off
Each foolish varlet I address will run,
And leave me most discourteously to find,
As it may chance, another auditor
For the remaining half.—O foolish times!
Foolish and evil too!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Zorada's apartment. Enter Romiero and Zorada.
Rom.
Feelst thou no pain, my love? Thou art fatigued.
Ah! why didst thou refuse thine own support?
These arms that to the earth's far verge would bear,
Blessing their toil, so sweet, so dear a burthen.

Zor.
Indeed, my lord, I needed no support;
The pain had passed away: I walked with ease.

Rom.
The foolish envious pain which cast thee, sweet,
Upon another's care. Thus, thus, and thus
[Kissing her cheeks, and then both her hands, one after the other.
I pay thee my devotion. Nay, look on me,
Smile on me thy sweet smiles, and raise thine eyes,
Sweet mate, sweet play-fellow, pretty Zorada!

Zor.
Nay, good my lord, these words are full of fondness,
And yet they please me not. What shall I say?
Speak to me as a wife, companion, friend,
Not as a petted darling. Art thou well?
How has it fared with thee since last we parted?
My father too—what dost thou know of him?

Rom.
Thou needst not fear for him; he has escaped;
He is in safety in a foreign land,
Where he, I hope, will end his days in peace.

Zor.
And shall I ne'er behold his face again?
[He shakes his head.
O but I will! I'll go to comfort him,
And so wilt thou. Why dost thou turn from me?
May it not be?

Rom.
Oh ask me not! I've sworn—

Zor.
What hast thou sworn?

Rom.
I cannot tell thee now.

Zor.
Then it is true!
[Turning from him with violent gestures of distress and displeasure to the end of the chamber; then returning and looking in his face upbraidingly.
How couldst thou; Oh! how couldst thou
Swear to deliver to the tyrant's vengeance,
Dead or alive, wherever thou shalt find him,
My father, thine old friend, the brave Sebastian?
Is it not so? If thou hast sworn an oath
Less terrible than this, tell it me quickly.

Rom.
Dear love, he is in safety far from hence,
This oath, as to his life, is nugatory;
And, but for it, thou ne'er hadst seen thy husband.
Thou knowst the cruel nature of Don Pedro.
Ah! why that face of sorrow and displeasure?
Alas! I see I am not welcome here.

Zor.
No; say not so.

Rom.
How can I then explain
Thy sad averted looks? Where art thou going?

Zor.
I'm faint; I am not well; I'm sick at heart;
I long to be alone.

Rom.
Life of my life! Indeed, thou art not well;
Then wherefore leave this chamber?
[Pointing to a couch.
Here lay thee down, and I will watch by thee.

Zor.
I'll rest me in my closet for a while!
I'm wayward grown, and love to be alone.

Rom.
No; say not so; I know thou art not wayward;
It is not in thy nature; but distress,
From filial duty, strain'd, perhaps, too far,
Hath made thee so. Remain, my love, with me;
Thou wilt forgive me when thou hast consider'd.

Zor.
I cannot now consider, with a heart
Gored to the quick. I pray you, then, my lord,
Permit me to retire.

Rom.
I'll lead thee to thy closet: lean on me.
[She waves him off with her hand.
Wilt thou not deign to do it?
[Exit Zorada, still motioning him not to follow her; (stopping, with clasped hands, in a thoughtful posture, after having paced several times rapidly across the room.)
An absent father and a present husband
I' th' scales are put, and, to all outward seeming,
The last doth kick the beam. Is it for this—
For this that I have given my freedom up,
Drawn every strong affection of my heart
To one dear point?—and this the poor return!
[After a second pause.
My life in such a perilous circumstance,
And now restored to her and to my home!
This is of small account. O woman, woman!
One corner of a gallant's passing fancy
Pleaseth thee well; the whole devoted heart
Of man matured is to thee as a yoke,
A cumb'rous weight from which thou wouldst escape;
And friendship, filial duty, every tie
Defrauds thy husband of his dear-earned rights.
[After pacing again through the room as before.
I am a fool! I knew the heart of woman—
Knew what she had to give, and, Oh! too well,
What might, at price of many an inward pang,
To her be given; yet, ne'ertheless, forsooth!
I murmur at my lot.

[These last words spoken while Don Guzman is entering behind him.
Guz.
What art thou mutt'ring? Murmurs at thy lot!
Were these the words I heard thee utter now
In such a smother'd voice? With fair Zorada
Within that lot comprised, wouldst thou exchange it
For any other man's?

Rom.
No; not for his who fills th' imperial throne.

Guz.
What ails thee, then, possessing such a treasure?

Rom.
Ay, if I did possess it.

Guz.
Dost thou not?

Rom.
The heart I do not. Call ye it possessing,
When any tie of friendship or of nature
Crosses the vows which she has given to love?

Guz.
I do not understand fantastic notions
And fine-spun niceties of sentiment.
I'll comprehend thee better presently.

Rom.
'Tis plain and simple matter. My return,
Though from a perilous state, gives to Zorada
Slight pleasure: her affections and concern
Are all engross'd by what is duty call'd
To her unhappy father. I am nothing.

Guz.
And is this all, indeed, that troubles thee?

Rom.
Should there be more? Why dost thou smile so strangely?

Guz.
At thy most simple folly, noble friend.
Surely the men in these degenerate days,
When every high-plumed youth and idle stripling
Hath leave to play his gambols in the sight
Of maids and married dames without reproof,
And pour bewitching nonsense in their ears
At feast or tourney, is most fortunate,
Who can but charge a young and lovely wife
With too much duteous love for her old father.
[Laughing heartily.
I needs must laugh: thou art fantastical.

Rom.
No; thou art light of heart and canst not judge:
Having no care thyself, thou art incredulous
Of any cause which others have for care.
To speak to thee of what I feel, is folly,
Though, from long habitude, I needs must do it.
Thou hast no sympathy, and yet my heart
Clings to thee as a friend.

Guz.
Nay; fie upon thee!
Thou knowst full well that unto the world's end
I'd run to serve thee, though my pliant lip
Cannot approve of all thy fleeting notions.
But we'll debate no more on things so irksome.
I came to say that Maurice hath invited me
To see some curious cave which yesterday
He first discover'd, as along the shore
In quest of sea-birds' eggs he idly wander'd.

Rom.
Has he been here so long?

Guz.
Doubtless he has. It is a curious sight
This fairy cave, as he described it to me:
I shall be absent for an hour or so;
Perhaps, a little longer.

[Exit.
Rom.
(alone).
He is fortunate,
Who can but charge a young and lively wife
With too much duteous love for her old father!
The smile that follow'd too,—that had its meaning.
Lame and not lame, and leaning on his arm!
The stroke darts through me like an adder's sting,
Though but so slightly given.

Re-enter Guzman with Maurice.
Guz.
Maurice is come with me to tempt thee out,
If we may be so bold. The fairy cave
Is a short ride from hence, the day is cool,
And we will wait thy pleasure.

Maur.
I pray you be entreated, good my lord.

Rom.
I thank ye both; I mean to stay at home.

Maur.
What! here alone, the ladies being retired?
On such a day as this, when the blue waves
Heaving and sinking in the sunny gleam.
Show all the changes of their crisped sides
Like the seam'd foldings of a silken robe;
When every sea-bird is upon the wing
Skimming and diving for his finny prey;
When distant vessels, tacking to the breeze.
Seem dames whose snowy kirtles are stretch'd out
To the slow measure of some courtly dance;—
On such a day as this to stay at home
In gloomy chambers pent—

Rom.
Surprises thee.

Maur.
In truth it does. Methinks on such a day,
Did not we see above the glassy brine
The mast of that wreck'd vessel still appear
To tell the dismal tale of last night's storm,
One would with buoyant heart say to the ocean,
Let us career it o'er thy surgy fields
To every coast o' th' earth.

Rom.
I doubt not, sir, 'tis a fair sight to those
Who come so far afield to look upon it.
Is thine old tutor dead, or dame Magera,
That thou art rambling gallantly at large
In this our distant province?—Dost thou blush?
That is a folly, if thou hast no cause.

Maur.
I fear, my lord, I have offended you.
I am as free to ramble now at large
As any he who reckons twice my years;
Nor should my visit to this distant province
Be deem'd an idle ramble; Don Fernandez,
My aged kinsman, claims some duty of me:
I am an inmate of his lonely tower.

Guz.
Pooh! boy, thou'st said enough, and somewhat more:
Who cares about thy visit to thy kinsman?

Rom.
Who does not care? It is an age of duty;
Nought now is cherish'd in the tender breast
But ties of blood; and his good company,
With all his lore and saws and thrice-told tales,
Will well reward the virtue of this youth.
Go to your cave, and see it in its beauty:
The billows else may wash its shelly sides,
And make it bare and little worth to-morrow.
(Aside to Guzman.)
Take him away: why do ye linger here?

Guz.
(aside to him).
Why speakst thou so unkindly to the youth?

Rom.
(aside).
Spoke I unkindly? Then 'twas unawares,
I meant it not.

Guz.
(aside).
Be civil to him then, and make amends;
He stares and wonders at such taunting words.

Rom.
(aloud).
A pleasant ride, my friends.
[They turn to go, and he calls after them.
And hark, Don Maurice!
If thou preferr'st a wayward captious host
(For such I do confess myself to be),
With two fair ladies (both methinks are fair),
To thine old kinsman's company, return,
And be one night at least our honour'd guest.

Maur.
I do, with thanks, accept your courtesy.

[Exeunt Maurice and Guzman.
Rom.
(looking after Maurice).
The very eye and visage, light and thoughtless;
A woman's varying blushes with the tint
Of sun-burnt hunter mix'd; the very form,
Slight as a stripling, statured as a man,
Which has—detested spell! so oft beguiled
The female fancy, prizing worthless show.
(After a pause.)
Can it be so? O no! it cannot be;
I but distract myself. I'll crush within me
All thoughts which this way tend, as pois'nous asps
That sting the soul and turn its bliss to bane.
(After another pause.)
To think of it no more, indeed, were good,
If it were possible. And yet to know
The truth, if fair or foul, were better still;
They are both placed beneath my observation;
'Tis well I did invite him for the night.

[Rings a bell violently.
Enter Jerome.
[A pause, Romiero seeming unwilling to speak.
Jer.
What do you want, my lord?

Rom.
Thyself, good Jerome.
Who follow'd thee? I heard a creaking step.

Jer.
It was mine own, my lord.

Rom.
'Tis well; come nearer, man. How many oaks
Have by my brawny foresters been fell'd,
Since I left home?

Jer.
I do not know, my lord.
Shall I inquire?

Rom.
Of what wouldst thou inquire?

Jer.
The oaks which you have just been speaking of.
Do you not wish to know—

Rom.
True; but I have another thing to say.
How many times hath this young don been here
To visit Donna Beatrice?

Jer.
To visit her?

Rom.
Yes, fool! to visit her.
Why dost thou look so strangely at the question?
Answer it in few words and faithfully.

Jer.
He hath, for some days past, come to the gate,
At noon-tide hour or so, but whom to visit
It suits not me to say.

Rom.
Then! 'tis not Beatrice he comes to visit?

Jer.
It does not so appear; it may,—it may not.

Rom.
Why dost thou hesitate and stammer thus?
Art thou afraid to speak? What is the matter?

Jer.
Nothing, my lord, but you did fix your eyes
With such a keen intenseness on my face,
I fear'd I might offend.

Rom.
How fear'd, unless the thing thou hast to say
Should be of bad import?

Jer.
As I breathe life,
Nothing of good or bad import have I
To tell your honour.

Rom.
Well, well! be it so.
Thy strange bewilder'd face made me suspect thee.
Why dost thou wait?

Jer.
Your further pleasure, sir.

Rom.
There's nothing else.—Yes, yes! go bid my huntsman
Prepare him for to-morrow's early chace.

Jer.
Why, good my lord! he died the very day
Before you left the castle.

Rom.
Ay, true, I had forgotten.—Get thee gone.
[Exit Jerome. (Alone.)
I like not his scar'd face and wary words:
Something is always wrong when such as he
Stammer, and stare, and weigh their phrases so.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Night. A grove near the walls of the castle, which is seen in the background, the moon appearing behind it. Enter Maurice.
Maur.
(after listening).
No footstep near, no stirring of the boughs,
Which cast their darken'd forms, distinct and motionless,
Athwart the paly lustre of the moon!
No gentle messenger to meet my hopes!—
Ah Hope! who makest the lover still thy fool!
Do I not know that she would give her presence
To no man living at an hour like this,
In such a spot as this, yet twice already
Some birch's shiny stem or blossom'd shrub
Have been to me her very form and semblance.
She may despise my billet—tear it—burn it,
Yet my heart beats as though—Ha! here comes Jerome. Enter Jerome.

What news?

Jer.
Good news.

Maur.
I'd smother thee with kisses,
But that thou art such an unseemly hound.
How look'd she? Was she angry? Was she pleas'd?
Will she vouchsafe to hear me plead my suit?

Jer.
She will.

Maur.
And where?

Jer.
In the long gallery,
Now unfrequented. I will be on watch
That no intruder break upon your meeting.

Maur.
Prince of Castile, go doff thy hat and plume;
I am a prouder, happier man than thou!

Jer.
Hush, hush! begone,—I hear a noise without.

Maur.
Where?

Jer.
To the right. We'll take the other path;
Though I must needs return by this again.

[Exeunt. Enter Zorada and Nurse by the opposite side.
Zor.
Stand thou aside, good nurse; I'll on some paces,
And softly call; if he be near at hand,
He'll know my voice.
[Coming forward to a thicket near the front of the stage.
Ho! art thou there? come forth;—come forth and fear not.
Perhaps he has mistaken thy direction,
I think he is in covert farther on.
I hear a rustling, yonder, to the left.

[Returns again to the bottom of the stage, and enter Sebastian. They embrace each other, while nurse stands apart.
Seb.
My child! my dear Zorada!

Zor.
Dear, dear father!

Seb.
And thou must meet me as a man proscribed:
Child of a parent, reft of name and honours,
Bann'd by the church, and by the laws condemn'd
E'en to the traitor's death of degradation:
One whom to name were pain and insult to thee;
One now despised of all, forgot, accurst.

Zor.
O not accurst! for I will bless thee, father,
Though every other tongue should blast thy fame.
O not forgotten! I'll remember thee;
Ay; nightly, daily, hourly, in my thoughts
Shalt thou have place; more cherish'd—more endear'd,
For that all hearts beside have shut thee out.
O not despised! for I will honour thee,
And in my pious thoughts, as now in act,
Kneel at thine honour'd feet in faithful duty.

Seb.
Rise, dearest, kindest, best, mine own Zorada!
Yes, child; thou shalt be all the world to me;
But it must be a faint, ideal world.
I may in dreams, in thought, in musing fancy
Behold thy face, thy form,—may hear thy voice—
But many a league of ocean and of land
Must lie between us. E'en my dying day
Will not be lighten'd with one look of thine.

Zor.
(after weeping on his neck).
We do not know what heaven appoints for us.

Seb.
Has Don Romiero spoken aught to thee
Respecting my sad fate?

Zor.
He has: 'tis true—the dreadful tale is true.
The king has bound him by the horrid oath
Which thou didst mention to me.—Base compliance!

Seb.
Nay, blame him not; he took it in the faith
That I was safe, beyond the reach of power.
But this being so, I needs must rest in hiding,
Secure and close, till thou canst find a vessel
To take me from the coast.

Zor.
There is within the precincts of this wood
An old abandon'd chapel, where the dead
Rest undisturbed. No living tenant there,
But owlet hooting on the ruin'd tower,
Or twitt'ring swallow in his eaves-screen'd nest,
Will share the dismal shelter: for a time
Thou mayst be there secure. My good old nurse
Has all things duly stored for food and rest,
And will conduct thee to it. Come, dear nurse!
Greet thine old master in his time of sorrow,
And take of him good care.

Nurse.
Yea, that I will; for unto me and mine
He hath been ever kind and bountiful.
O woe the day! that I should have occasion
To do him such a service!

Seb.
Ay, nurse; there be sad changes in men's fortunes.
The day when first I saw thee to thy breast
Lay this dear child, a little toothless infant,
Whilst o'er ye both bent with fond beaming eyes
The best and fairest lady of the land,
For so she was,—that was indeed a day—
A day of brightness. Ah! how different
From this most dismal hour!

Nurse.
She was a noble lady, fair and gentle!
This wicked world did not deserve to hold her,
And so her time was short. And for her babe—
My babe;—I call'd her mine, and still will call her,—
A very cherub, peeping from the clouds,
As our fair pictures show them, is less beautiful
Than she half-covered with her cradle-clothes,
When waking from her morning's sleep, appear'd.
Ah me! the pleasant days that I remember!

Zor.
(alarmed).
I hear a noise.

Seb.
Thou art, my dearest child, alarm'd for nothing.

Zor.
Yes; I fear every thing. But, right or wrong,
Go instantly, nor linger longer here.
Nay, go: we do not part: I'll see thee soon.

Seb.
Heaven bless thee, then! Come, nurse, I'm now thy child,
Cherish me kindly.

Nurse.
Ay, bless your honour! I will do my best.
I'd give the life-blood in this poor old heart
For you and yours.

[Exeunt Sebastian and nurse. Zorada goes by the opposite side, meeting Jerome, who enters at the same time, and hurries along, covering her face as she passes him.
Jer.
Who's that who starts aside with guilty haste?
[Following her.
Ho! damsel, mistress, whosoe'er thou be,
Let me have words of thee. I swear, good faith!
I'll take thee safely to thy rendezvous,
If thou wilt trust me.
[Following her off the stage, and then returning.
What have I done? What have I seen? No face,
For that was closely cover'd, but the figure,
The robe, the air,—if it be not Zorada,
I am a fool—a purblind, mazy fool,
And do not know my right hand from my left.
What brings her here? Were't any other woman,
It were an easy thing to guess her purpose.
Well, who lives long may see strange things, they say;
And if I needs must give my thoughts the rein,
I'll curb my tongue.

[Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An outer room in the apartments of Zorada, with a wide door opening in the bottom of the stage, which shows a magnificent bedchamber, where Romiero is discovered walking to and fro in a distracted manner; he then rushes hastily from it to the front of the stage, and bends his ear to listen.
Rom.
No footstep yet: all's still: 'tis past endurance.
So late! the first night, too, of my return!
Is it the tardiness of cold aversion?
'Tis more than that; some damned conference
Elsewhere detains her. Ay, that airy fool
Wore at the supper-board a conscious look,
Glancing in concert with the half-check'd smile
That moved his quiv'ring cheek, too well betraying
His inward triumph: 'twas a cursed smile;
I would have cast my javelin at his throat,
But shame withheld me.—She the while did sit
With pensive fearful eye, that always fell,
Beneath my keen inquiring look, reproved.
Is virtue thus demure, restrain'd, mysterious?
She, too, who was as cheerful as the light,
Courting the notice of my looks! no, no!
Some blasting change is here. What can be done?
For something must be done.
[A pause and listening.
Ho there without!
Who walks at this late hour?—A heavy step;
Have they their emissaries on the watch
To give them notice of my movements? Ho!
Ho there without! Enter Servant.

What dost thou up? Why art thou not abed?

Serv.
My lord, it is not yet our hour of rest.

Rom.
Thou liest! 'Tis late; 'tis past the midnight watch.

Serv.
I do believe scarce half an hour has past
Since I did light your honour from the hall.

Rom.
Peace! thou art fool or knave, I know not which.
I've pass'd since then two hours as truly told
As sun on dial moves.—Why shrinkst thou back?

Serv.
I hear my lady coming.

Rom.
Coming at last! Haste! leave me; go thy ways. [Exit servant.
[Putting out a lamp which stands on a side table.

Out light! The partial gleam from yonder door,
Will, as she enters, fall upon her strongly;
I'll stand aside, and mark her face unseen.
Enter Zorada, who stops short to wipe tears from her eyes, &c., as if preparing herself to appear composed; whilst Romiero, in the shade, after eyeing her suspiciously, bursts suddenly upon her.
Have done with all this smoothing of thy features,
And look as sad and rueful as thou wilt.
The tardy, slow unwillingness, and all
Thy strange demeanour of this day, too well
Speak that which e'en the smiles of Hebe's cheek,
Hadst thou more female art such smiles to copy,
Could not gainsay.—Where hast thou been so long?
Wilt thou not answer me?

Zor.
You frighten me, Romiero, as I reckon
'Tis little past our usual hour of rest.

Rom.
Thou dost evade the question. Not the time;—
Where hast thou been?

Zor.
Have patience—O have patience!
Where I have been I have done thee no wrong:
Let that suffice thee.

Rom.
Ha! thou'rt quick, methinks,
To apprehend suspicion. Done no wrong!
What call'st thou wrong? Yea, by that sacred band
Which linketh soul to soul in wedded love,
Pure, fervent, and confiding,—every thought,
Fancy, and consciousness, that from thy husband,
Unfitting for his ear, must be withheld,
Is wrong to him, and is disgrace to thee.

Zor.
Then woe is me! Since wives must be so perfect,
Why didst thou wed Zorada de Modinez?

Rom.
Dost thou upbraid me for it? Then too well
I see the change.—Yes, I will call it change,
For I must still believe thou lovedst me once.

Zor.
Yes, yes! I loved thee once, I love thee now,
And will for ever love thee, dear Romiero,
If thou wilt suffer me.

Rom.
Suffer thee, dear Zorada! it is paradise
To think thou lovest me, hell to doubt of it.

Zor.
Then doubt it not. If I am cold and sad,
I have a cause,—I must repeat my words,—
Which does to thee no wrong. Some few days hence
Thou shalt know all, and thou wilt pity me.
Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundst to be untrue?

Rom.
Thou never didst.

Zor.
Then why suspect me now?

Rom.
Give me thy dear, dear hand, my own sweet wife!
Yes, I will trust thee, and do thou the while
Think charitably of my stern rebuke.
Love can be stern as well as tender, yet
Be all the while most true and fervent love.
But go to rest, dear child, and I will follow thee;
For it indeed is late.
[Stands musing as she retires, then turning suddenly.
Zorada!

Zor.
(returning).
What, my lord?

Rom.
Forget not, lore,
That soothing ointment of such efficacy.

Zor.
For what, I pray?

Rom.
Didst thou not wrench thy foot?

Zor.
O, not at all.

Rom.
Didst thou not say thou hadst?

Zor.
O that was but a feint to cheat Don Maurice.

Rom.
To cheat him! wherefore cheat him? for what end?
Was it a time for childish freaks like that?
And the deep colour crimsoning thy cheek—
What does it say?—Go to! thou needst not speak.

Zor.
Indeed, indeed you err; my heedless words—

Rom.
Were very, very heedless.—Go to bed;
Go, go! my hour of rest is distant still.
Linger not here, I say; retire to rest.
[Exit Zorada into the chamber. (After musing some time.)
I do not think her wicked, but there lurks
Within her fancy vain and dangerous things.
Those striplings,—those light, beardless playfellows
The devil himself hath not an imp more subtle
Than one of these.—They laugh, and mock, and mimic,
And cast upon the lovely face of virtue,
The gloomy veil of cloister'd melancholy,
While vice is all so gay and deftly trick'd,
That who can choose but range them on her side?
To break down every sacred tie, what is it?
'Tis but a merry trick!—
Ay, she was wary, too, in her expressions:
“Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundst to be untrue.”—Equivocation,
A half-corrupted woman's poor device.
[Muses and mutters to himself a few moments longer, and then paces up and down with slow irresolute steps.
—A half corrupted woman!
If it be come to this, who shall restrain
The hateful progress, which as rapidly—
Restrain it! No! to hell's profoundest pit
Let it conduct her, if she hath so far
Debased her once pure mind, and injured me.
I dare not think on't, yet I am compell'd;
And at the very thought a raging fire
Burns in my head, my heart, through every vein
Of this distracted frame. I'll to the ramparts,
And meet the chillness of the midnight wind;
I cannot rest beneath this hateful roof.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

An old Gothic gallery, with doors leading to different apartments. Enter Jerome, carrying a light, and followed by Don Maurice.
Maur.
I am the first at our appointed place,
Which is beseeming in affairs of love.
I hope, meantime, she is upon the way.
List, dost thou hear a step?

Jer.
My ears are not so quick.

Maur.
Am I again deceived? and hearst thou nothing?

Jer.
I hear the swallows stirring in their nests,
Disturb'd with sudden light. Such creatures build
In ev'ry crevice of those mouldering arches.

Maur.
Didst thou not tell me these adjoining chambers
Are all untenanted, and no one near us.

Jer.
(pointing).
Yes, all are empty but that further room,
In which Don Guzman chooses to abide,
That from its lofty windows he may see
A more extensive prospect.

Maur.
Would he were at the utmost verge of all
That may be thence survey'd!—I like it not:
He is a dangerous neighbour.

Jer.
But he is tired and gone, ere this, to rest:
You need not fear to be disturb'd by him.

Maur.
I hear a footstep now she comes, she comes!
O she is good and punctual to my wish!
Do thou retire, good Jerome. Enter Beatrice attended, and Jerome with her female attendant keep on the background, while Maurice, running eagerly to her, leads her nearer the front.

My charming Beatrice! may I indeed
Believe that thou art here; that thou vouchsafest
To come with thoughts of favour for thy slave?

Bea.
Perhaps I do but dream I am so bold.
It is so strange,—my mind is so bewilder'd!

Maur.
And why bewilder'd, love? There's nought to fear.

Bea.
I've heard sounds of alarm, and seen faint forms,
That seem'd to follow me, and yet were nothing.
I thought the very stones of the old walls
Did call my name and know me as I pass'd.

Maur.
Fear nothing, love: this place is unfrequented:
Swallows or bats may whisper of our meeting,
But nought besides.—Oh! how I have desired
To tell thee all my heart; on bended knee
To plead my cause!—My fate is in thy hands;
And since thou hast such pity of my pain
As thus to listen to me, may I hope
Thou wilt be better still?

Bea.
Go not so fast: perhaps I am but come
To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message.

Maur.
And if thou do, I'll bear it all so meekly,
That thou wilt say within thy cunning self,
“This man, in truth, is made to be a husband.”

Bea.
It were no cunning but a foolish self
Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant
Would laugh most certainly within himself,
On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion
Join'd to the noted name of gay Don Maurice.

Maur.
Nay, do not twit me now with all the freaks,
And levities, and gambols charged upon me
By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood.
I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious
As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt,
And all the while as blithe o' heart as he.
I have as many fashions and demeanours,
As mantles in a lady's wardrobe; choose,—
I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return
Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours.

Bea.
I hear a noise.

Maur.
Only the wind that moves yon creaking door.
Step farther this way.
[Leading her to the opposite side of the stage, near the door of Guzman's chamber.
The time is precious, my most charming mistress!
Let me speak plainly in few words. Thou knowst
How much I fear Romiero's apt suspicion.
Delay were dangerous: therefore by the dawn,
In the dark grove of pines, meet me, prepared
To quit with me the castle, and for life
To share my lot. Deny me not: time presses:
O let me urge thee!—As for life I plead.

Bea.
(after a pause).
What can I say?—I feel I should not say it,
And yet I feel thou dost not plead in vain.

Maur.
Thou'lt meet me then,—do not retract thy words.
There is no time for slow deliberation.
Thou'lt meet me by the dawn?

Bea.
Yes; I will meet thee in the grove of pines.

Enter at the bottom of the stage a Servant, who whispers to Jerome, and then retires, upon which Jerome advances hastily to Maurice.
Maur.
What is the matter?

Jer.
Romiero is not yet in bed. A spy
Who stood on watch without has given me notice.
He wanders through the house like one possess'd,
And may at last invade your privacy.

Maur.
He is not yet so near us. We shall hear him
Ere he approach.

Jer.
His motions oft are sudden.

Bea.
Retire, retire! I'll meet thee by the dawn;
So, till that time, adieu.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Don Guzman's chamber, who is discovered sleeping in his chair. Enter Romiero.
Rom.
Not yet abed! Ay, but he is asleep.
Happy unwedded! Thou canst soundly sleep;
Nor woman's fickleness, nor woman's guilt,
Can bring disgrace or agony to thee.
I'll not disturb him.
[After remaining for awhile on the front of the stage musing and muttering to himself, he speaks, but in a low voice.
The heart, the heart! What prize we but the heart!
[Mutters again, then breaks out in loud and vehement utterance.
No; though his lips had never touch'd her hand,
If that be lost, I'm wretched!

Guz.
(waking).
What sound is that? Who's there? Ha! thou, my friend!

Rom.
What has so startled thee?

Guz.
The voice that woke me.
Thou must have heard it; 'twas a human voice.

Rom.
It was mine own, Don Guzman.

Guz.
What has befallen? Why wert thou so alarm'd?
Or was it some sharp pang of bodily pain?

Rom.
No, no! it was not that; and I am here
Only to share thy chamber for the night.

Guz.
And why? I am amazed.

Rom.
I've paced o'er ramparts, halls, and galleries,
Till I have need of rest.

Guz.
And thou wouldst find it here? What strange caprice
Debars thee from the fair Zorada's chamber;
That place which gives the rest of paradise?

Rom.
Ah! so it did to me. It was a spot
Where every lovely—every sweetest thing
In seeming shelter, bloom'd i' th' early sun,
Till the first sultry breath of southern winds
Blasted its freshness, leaving nought behind
But tainted fragrance—sere and faded flowers.
It was the magic palace of a dream,
Changed in an instant to some dismal den:
It was a bower of healthful innocence,
Changed to a lazar's vile and loathly ward:
It was—Oh, oh! I know not what I say,
Thinking of what I was and what I am.

Guz.
Nay; give thy ruffled thoughts a little pause;
Be well assured things are not as thou fearst.
She did appear so good.

Rom.
Alas! she did.
If I but droop'd or look'd a little pale,
The stroke of her soft hand, her kindly words,
Her sweet breath on my cheek,—O! it did turn
The hour of pain to bliss!—And all this happiness
Was but delusion—but a hov'ring vapour
That covers for awhile the fenny pool.

Guz.
No, say not so! Is it not far more likely
That the delusion rests with thee, my friend?

Rom.
(after musing, and without heeding what Guzman has said).
Ay, if I did but droop, her look of sympathy
Went to my soul. Or if I parted from her,
Though only for a week—a day—

Guz.
Cease, cease!
Be well assured it is not as thou fearst.
Try to compose thyself: what are thy proofs
That she has been unfaithful?

Rom.
No; what a worldly judge would deem unfaithful
I trust she has not been; but what avails it?
He whom her fancy follows, he who pleases
Her secret thoughts and wishes, is her lord,
Let who will, by the power of legal right,
Her body hold in thraldom.—Not unfaithful!
If I have lost her heart, I've suffer'd all.
No further outrage can enhance my wretchedness.
[Turning quickly and taking hold of him.
But thou believest that, e'en in this, my fears
Are mere extravagance.
[Pausing and looking earnestly in his face.
Dost thou not think so? Dost thou not, Don Guzman?

Guz.
I hope they are.

Rom.
That hope implies a doubt;
Ay, and a doubt which, when I saw thee last,
Did not exist. Speak, speak! If thou mistrust her,
It is on no slight grounds.

Guz.
Be more composed, and I will tell thee all.

Rom.
There's something then to tell; some damned thing.

Guz.
Nay, think not so; for, when I've told thee all,
'Twill make no certain proof against Zorada.
And since thou thinkst her love for thee is changed,
Caring but for her love, thou mayst the better
Endure to learn the worst, if such should follow.

Rom.
(in a faint voice).
I understand thee.

Guz.
Two hours since, perhaps—
I've been asleep, and cannot say how long—
But pause we now. Thy quiv'ring lips are white,
Thine eyes are fix'd: lean upon me, my friend.

Rom.
A sickly faintness passes o'er my heart.

Guz.
(supporting him to the chair).
Lean here awhile; thou canst not hear me yet.

Rom.
I'm better now.

Guz.
But we will pause awhile.

Rom.
Proceed, proceed! I'll listen, though thy words
Were each the spik'd tooth of a martyr's wheel.
Proceed:—Some two hours since—

Guz.
Some two hours since, as, not disposed to sleep,
I was perusing that old book of stories,
I heard, and, as I judged, close to the door,
Two persons speaking in the gallery.
The voice of Maurice I could recognise,
The other was a woman's.

Rom.
(starting from the chair).
And Zorada's.

Guz.
Use not such frantic gestures of despair;
I say not it was her's: perhaps it was not;
Perhaps 'twas Donna Beatrice.

Rom.
No, no!
It was Zorada. Absent from her chamber
I found her at that time. When she return'd,
At a late hour, we had some wrangling words,
Gloz'd o'er, but poorly gloz'd, with female fraud,
Which soon betray'd itself, and then I left her.

Guz.
'Tis very strange; and what I heard them say—

Rom.
Ay, ay! proceed with that; and make no pause
Till thou hast told the whole, though it should make me
A very fiend of agony and shame.

Guz.
Thou grasp'st my throat so hard, I cannot speak.

Rom.
Well, well, then! Out with all their damned words,
Till they have proved the blackest tint of guilt,
And then will come the fatal end of all;
The sabre clutch'd in strength; the stroke of vengeance;
The horrible joy, that lasteth for a moment!
Let all this be; let horror be unstinted!
Let every misery light upon the head
Of that most wanton—No, the word would choke me;
I will not utter it.

Guz.
Thou art beside thy wits; thou canst not hear me.
The words they spoke, prove against her, and no one,
An act of guilt, but only the intent.

Rom.
Intent! O monstrous! foul deliberation!
If life-blood warm his heart another day,
I am bereft, debased, and brutified,
Unmeet to wear the outward form of manhood.

Guz.
Wilt thou not hear my story?

Rom.
I have heard it,
Knowing the cursed purport; ne'ertheless,
Relate it all, minutely as thou wilt,
I'll listen to the end.

Guz.
I drew close to the door, and heard these words
Distinctly spoken in Don Maurice's voice:—
“Thou knowst I fear Romiero's apt suspicion;
“Delay were dangerous; therefore, by the dawn,
“Meet me beneath the grove of pines, prepared
“To quit the castle. We will fly together:”—
Or words to this effect, which indistinctly
Fell into softer whispers, till, alarm'd,
As I suppose, they left the gallery.
'Twas my intent to give thee early notice;
Therefore I shunn'd that tempting couch, and sought
Here, in my chair, to snatch a little sleep,
And be in readiness ere break of day.

Rom.
Thou hast done well.
[After a pause.
Come to this pitch of secret profligacy,
Who was so modest and so timid once!
Was I a tyrant, that she is so ready,
To doff the virtuous and respected wife—
For the base mistress of that minion too?
Some spell, some devilish witchery, hath subdued her,
Ere it could come to this.

Guz.
Ay, so I think, if that in verity
It be Zorada.

Rom.
O 'tis she! 'tis she!
Thinkst thou I am a fool to be deceived
By such affected doubts, in pity utter'd?
Speak truly, plainly, treat me as a man.
Call them—yea call that woman, an' thou wilt,—

Guz.
Fy, fy! Zorada is not yet a—

Rom.
(putting his hand on the lips of Guzman).
Hold!
Speak not the word; I'm weaker than I thought:
Is it not near the dawn?

Guz.
I think 'tis distant still.

Rom.
Surely it is not.
We'll to the eastern turret, and look forth:
Should they escape!—My brain burns at the thought.

Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A grove of pines, and the sky of morning, before sunrise, seen through them. Enter Romiero and Guzman, from a thicket at the bottom of the stage.
Rom.
The dull light through yon bank of misty clouds
Hath changed its tanny hue for silver grey;
'Tis near, 'tis actually, 'tis past the time.

Guz.
Have patience; for the sun, I guess, is still
Behind the eastern hills.

Rom.
Should they escape!—Some cursed emissary,
Upon the watch, perhaps, hath given alarm.
Should they escape us by some other path!—
It must not be: I will look out.

Guz.
(drawing him back to the thicket as he is about to advance).
Keep still.
I see them now; but let us be conceal'd
Till they are nearer.

Rom.
They move tardily,
With their damn'd dalliance.—So very fond
That they forget the peril of their state,
Lost in the present bliss.—
Ay; smile with lips which shall, within an hour,
Be closed in death; and glance your looks of love
From eyes which shall, ere long, in coldness glare
Like glassy icicles.

Guz.
Stay; rush not on them now.

Rom.
See that! see that! her hand, and then her lips!
Shall I look on, and give another moment
To such abhorred transport.—Where's my weapon?

[Snatching his sword from Guzman, who attempts to remove it.
Guz.
Be not a madman in thine ecstasy,
And foil thine own intent.—See, they advance.

Enter Maurice, leading Beatrice muffled in her mantle.
Maur.
Come, sweetest mistress mine, move we more quickly;
Our horses wait us some few paces off;
And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds,
Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip,
Holding on homely fare a merry feast,
We will, like them, in all security,
Enjoy a welcome rest.

Rom.
(rushing forth).
Which shall to doomsday last, thou damned villain!

[Draws fiercely upon him, while Beatrice runs away. They fight, but she presently returns and rushes between them, favoured by Guzman.
Rom.
Forbear, thou shameless woman.—Beatrice!

Bea.
It is, my lord; and O have pity on me!
It is myself who am the most to blame.
Pardon my dear, dear Maurice.—Yes, you will.
Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy,
Emboldens me—Our hearts have long been join'd;
O do not sever us!

Rom.
No, simple girl:
Sever ye! by the holy rood I will not!
I am right glad that ye are so united.
Stick to it then; be thrifty of your love,
To make it last; be doves in constancy.
Good sooth, young fools! I will not sever ye.

Bea.
(kissing his hand).
Thanks, noble, kind Romiero!

Maur.
Thanks for this frank and unexpected pardon!
I fear'd, my lord, that you might deem it right
To thwart my suit with Beatrice, who lived,
Protected, as her friends might haply think,
Beneath your roof.

Rom.
And thou thoughtst justly too.
In cooler blood so ought I to have felt.
Beshrew me! whither fled my wits the while?
I have most freely given what is not mine.
(To Guzman.)
Do thou, my friend, untie this ravell'd knot.
(Turning again to Maurice.)
I'll plead thy cause, at least, and prove, perhaps,
A powerful advocate.—Speak to them, Guzman;
And promise in my name, without reserve,
All that my honour warrants. I, meantime,
Must make my peace where I have need of pardon.

[Exit in eager haste.
Maur.
How placable and kind beyond belief!
Would I had fairly own'd to him my love,
Since he is thus inclined! But he appear'd
Hostile, and stern, and fretful at my stay,
Unreasonably prolong'd. I had not courage
To risk my happiness, which his caprice,
Stern sense of honour—call it as you please—
Might in a moment blast.

Guz.
I blame thee not; hadst thou at first declared it,
Thou wouldst have found him hostile.

Maur.
Then, pray, Don Guzman, what strange freak hath changed him?

Guz.
That he is changed, is your good luck; improve it,
Without inquiring why you are so favour'd.

Maur.
And so we will, sweet Beatrice; we will
Delay our happiness, to make it surer.

Bea.
Yes, Maurice; run no further risk; we'll both
Return again and bide within the castle.

Guz.
No; be advised. (To Beatrice.)
Do thou return alone;
Some foolish freak may yet disturb his mind.
I know he'll favour Maurice most when absent.
(To Maurice.)
Dost thou not comprehend me?

Maur.
Not very clearly: jealousy of one
Whose love is fix'd on an acknowledged mistress,
So fair, so lovely, were absurd—impossible.

Guz.
Nay, only say absurd; for there be husbands,
Ay, lovers too, who, should you cross their way,
New-mated with the Queen of Love herself,
And their own dame or mistress were in form
Black as an Ethiop, would ne'ertheless
Suspect you of designs against their peace.
Then wonder not, Zorada being fair,
If fanciful conceits disturb his brain.

Maur.
But I'll be circumspect.

Guz.
Go, foolish boy!
Thy very shadow on the wall will show
Some indication of sinister wishes.
School thou the substance as thou wilt. Go, go!
And be assured I'll prove thy friend when absent,

Maur.
(to Beatrice).
And must we part?

Bea.
We shall not part for long.

Maur
No, not for long, sweet maid: beneath thy window
I'll hold my midnight watch; and when thy casement
Moves slowly on its hinges, I'll look up,
And see thy beauty, by the moon's pale light,
Sending sweet smiles to bless me.—
When thou walkst forth, I'll in some thicket lurk,
To see thee pass—perhaps to touch thy robe.
Wilt thou not give me, dear, before we part,
Some token of thy love?

Bea.
Yes, gentle Maurice, thou shalt have a token,
Which every hour thou'lt look upon, and think
How dear, how true—

Guz.
I'll leave you for awhile
To settle all this nonsense as you will;
That done, we'll meet again in yonder alley,
And I'll conduct the lady to the castle.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The apartment of Zorada.— She enters with nurse, who carries a basket in her hand.
Zor.
(speaking as she enters).
And see, good nurse, that where the cold wind enter'd
Thou stop the crevice well. Oh! that his head,
His dear and honour'd head, should so be laid,
While I am couch'd on down! Thou sayst his face
Look'd not so sadly as before.

Nurse.
Indeed I thought so, madam: he spoke cheerily,
And listen'd to my stories of past days,
As if he liked to hear them.

Zor.
Alas! the very sound of human words,
Address'd to him in peace, is now a solace
Enjoy'd but rarely.—I must talk and smile,
And keep my station at the social board,
While my sad heart is thinking of his silent
And lonely state.—There is my picture then,
Since he desires to have it.

[Giving her a picture, which she puts into the basket.
Nurse.
Yes, madam, he did earnestly desire it.
He bade me say to you, no lover ever
Gazed on the features of a plighted mistress
With such intense and yearning love, as he
Will gaze upon this image.

Zor.
Yes; he will look, and think that in return
It looks with love on him; but woe is me!
He cannot know how dearly in my heart
His image is impress'd. I call to mind
His kind caresses in my infant years;
His noble form in warlike harness braced,
When he returning caught me to his heart,
And heard my simple welcome with delight,
Filling his eyes with tears. I well remember—
Dost thou not also, nurse? the voice of fondness
With which, e'en when I cross'd his graver mood,
He call'd me little Zada. O 'twas sweet!
I thought so then; but now it haunts mine ear
Like portion of some broken melody,
Which mocking bird is so enamour'd of,
He will not learn the whole.—And say, good nurse,
That I will surely see him ere he go,
If it be possible. [Exit nurse.
(After a thoughtful pause.)

“My little Zada! tush, my little fool!
I will not have thee for my playfellow,
If thou be so perverse.”
No more than this; this was my worst rebuke.
He set no heartless stepdame o'er my head,
Though many ladies strove to win his love.
He was both sire and mother to his child,
Gentle as her I lost.
Then for his sake I'll willingly endure
The present misery. O, my Romiero!
Wilt thou not trust my conduct for a day?—
Absent all night! To what a state of passion
His brooding fancy must have work'd his mind!
Alas, alas; 'tis his infirmity.

Enter Romiero.
Rom.
My dear Zorada! dear, dear wife! thy pardon:
I crave it on my knees. O pardon one
Who has offended from excess of love.
I might have thought all eyes that look'd upon thee,
With more than admiration look'd; but, Oh!
To think that thy pure mind could e'er be moved
To aught which blessed saints might not approve,
Was monstrous, vile—yea a most vile suggestion—
Though all the while 'twas an offence of love.
Thou art amazed, I see, and well thou mayst.
I have but now discover'd what my fears—

Zor.
Fears! What hast thou discover'd?

Rom.
Be not alarm'd; nought that can injure thee.
For if thou hast been privy to their love,
Though I might chide thee as a cunning wife,
Who from her husband hath a secret kept,
The bane of confidence; yet being myself
So deep in trespass, I must needs be meek,
And say thou art not very, very naughty.

Zor.
Thy words are wild; I do not comprehend them.

Rom.
Dost thou not know thy fair but thoughtless friend
Has to young Maurice's suit such favour given,
That she this morning, short while since, was caught
Escaping in his company?
I watch'd and stopp'd them in the grove of pines.
How glad a sight it was to me, when, wild,
With terror wild, she rush'd between our weapons
To find it was but Beatrice!

Zor.
But Beatrice? whom didst thou fear to find?

Rom.
Oh! spare me! Crimson shame upon my cheek,
Betrays too plainly that for which already
I've craved forgiveness.

Zor.
(drawing herself up proudly).
Yes, I comprehend thee.

Rom.
Oh! but that look, that air, that flush of anger
Which ne'er before so stain'd thy lovely face,
Speak not of pardon.
[She turns away, and he follows her.
I have much offended.
But he who like offence hath ne'er committed:
Who ne'er hath look'd on man's admiring eye
Fix'd on the treasure of his heart, till fear,
Suspicion, hatred hath bereft his soul
Of every generous feeling; he who never
Hath, in that state of torture, watch'd her face
Till e'en the traits of saintly innocence
Have worn the shade of conscious guilt; who never
Hath, in his agony, for her dear sake
Cursed all the sex;—may, as the world conceives,
Be a most wise, affectionate, good husband;
But, by all ecstacy of soul, by all
That lifts it to an angel's pitch, or sinks it
E'en to perdition, he has loved but slightly—
Loved with a love, that is, compared to mine,
As cottage hearth where smould'ring embers lie
To the surcharged unquenchable volcano.

Zor.
What creed is this which thy perturbed mind
Repeats so boldly? Good my lord, discard it,
As a false faith. I have believed true love
Of such a noble, high, confiding nature,
That neither scandal's breath, nor seeming show
Of fitful change, could shake its gen'rous trust.
'Twere agony for me to think thee false;
But till thou front me with a rival—yea,
Till thine own words have own'd that thou art faithless—
I will believe thee true.

Rom.
Believe, believe it! and on these dear hands,
A thousand times caress'd, let me be vow'd
Ne'er to offend again thy noble nature
With e'en the slightest movement of suspicion!
Dost thou relent, Zorada? Dost thou love me?

Zor.
Indeed I do; have I not often said it?
And yet, it seems, thou didst mistrust my words.

Rom.
Fye on that gibe! let me have perfect pardon.

Zor.
(embracing him).
Thou art forgiven. Now; art thou satisfied?

Rom.
I were a Tartar else, or sullen Turk.
Sweet partner, lovely mate, my gentle wife!
O the soft touch of this dear hand thrills through me,
So dear! as dear as when thou first wert mine.
[Stroking her hand, and then pressing it to his forehead and cheek.
If word, or look, or circumstance, again
E'er tempt me to conceive unworthy thoughts,
I am a vulgar wretch, debased and mean,
Unworthy even to look thee in the face,
Or hold myself akin to virtue. No;
I will no more offend. Re-enter Nurse, who is busy arranging her basket, and then looking up, starts on seeing Romiero.

Nay, start not, worthy nurse; pray thee advance.

Nurse.
I came—I thought my lady was alone.

Rom.
And so she is; for we are so united
In every thought and wish, that thou shouldst reckon
When with each other, we are still alone.
Is it not so?—Thou comest for some good purpose,
I'll swear. To whom bearst thou that tempting fruit?

Nurse.
To no one, sir; I come to show its beauty; It is my lady's basket.

Rom.
Thou'st cull'd the best: my lips are parch'd and dry.
May I—

[Putting his hand to the basket.
Nurse.
Nay, good my lord, I'll choose you one.

Rom.
(rejecting what she offers).
Not that: the further peach my fancy pleases.
[Putting his hand into the basket.
But there be dainty viands and cakes besides!

Zor.
A charitable dole for age and want.
[Looking to the nurse significantly.
That is the reason why I bade her show it,
Ere she should take it to the poor distress'd.

Rom.
Ha! let me then restore my robbery;
And here, to make amends.
[Putting money into the basket.
What have we here?
[Taking out a picture.
Is this a present for your villager?

Nurse.
Yes, please you.—No, she but desired to see it.

Rom.
(with bitter irony).
A most refined and sentimental gossip!
Or does she mean to use it as a charm
To cure old aching bones?

Nurse.
You've guess'd it well, my lord. Quoth she to me,
Could I but see your lady's blessed face!
Quoth I to her, thou canst not, by good reason:
My lord is now return'd. Quoth she again,
Could I but see her picture, lack a day!

Rom.
Have done: I see thy drift. Be not so eager
To tell me how it is. I'm satisfied.

Zor.
Come to my closet, nurse; there is besides
What I must charge thee with.
[Exeunt Zorada and nurse, the last speaking loudly as she retires.
Ay, ay, quoth she, poor soul! I have a longing
To see that picture. Foolish man, quoth I,
'Tis but a painted—

[Her voice still heard as she retires.
Rom.
Foolish man, quoth I!—The cunning jade
Hath made a slip: it was a woman first.
[A pause, and he stands musing and muttering to himself before he speaks aloud, then in a low smothered voice.
Ay, and such thoughts
Which in the breast had perish'd unreveal'd.
Are by these cunning beldames brought to utterance.
Words follow thoughts, acts follow words, and all
The steps of infamy, from which the mind
By nature shrinks, are thus familiar made:
A blighting bane, corroding to their core
Beauty and innocence.
[Mimicking the voice of a nurse
“My dearest child!
Thou needst not fear to tell thy thoughts to me;
I know thy tender heart, I know thy fears.”
Would the whole race were blasted from the earth! [In his own voice, and stamping on the ground.
Enter Jerome.

What brings thee here?

Jer.
Old Pietro is below,
And craves to speak with you.

Rom.
The irksome fool!
He trows that I am always in the humour
To hear his prosing proverbs.

Jer.
He does, my lord; and oft presuming on it,
Has grown familiar.

Rom.
Art thou his judge?
Tell him I cannot see him now. To-morrow
I'll find him in his cottage.

Jer.
But what he has to tell you, please you, sir,
He bade me further add is of importance,
And may not be delay'd.

Rom.
I'll see him, then, since it must needs be so.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An antechamber. Enter Pietro and a domestic.
Pie.
(speaking as he enters).
A blessing on thy simple head! impatient!
I have, good sooth! been wont to speak with him
As though he were my fellow. Much shrewd counsel
He hath received from me right pleasantly.
He looks not grave or proud when poor men speak;
At least I'm sure he was not so inclined
Before he married.
Enter Jerome behind him, and listens archly.
Ay, he knows mankind,
With all their knavish arts; ay, and he knows
I know them also. Bless the day! full often
He listen'd to me with a merry face:
Much shrewd discoursing we have had together.

Jer.
(advancing).
True, but such shrewd discoursing, as thou callst it,
Should only upon rainy days take place,
When idle folk, from field and sport debarr'd,
Are glad to while away the weary time
With aught to save the kicking of their heels.

Pie.
Will he not see me then?

Jer.
I said not so.
He'll see thee presently; but do not tease him
With a long-winded tale, choked up with saws;
He is not in the humour for it now.
It would, to say the least on't, be a present
More prized by him who gives than who receives it.

Pie.
Go to! I have no need of thee to school me:
I know as well as thou dost when to speak,
And when to hold my tongue.

Enter Romiero and Guzman, and the domestics withdraw.
Rom.
Good morrow, Pietro! thou wouldst speak with me.

Pie.
Yes, please your honour, I'm a simple man;—
That is to say, I am not school'd or learn'd
As many be, who set great store by it;
But yet I think I can, as well as others,
Scent mischief in its covert. Ah, good lack!
This is a wicked world.

Rom.
I know it well.
Thou'st told me so a thousand times, good Pietro.
What is the matter now? Rehearse it briefly,
And plainly too, my friend: enough of comment
Will follow after. Speak,—what is the matter?

Pie.
Ay, something is the matter, take my word for't.
For there be ill enough in this sad world,—
In court and cot, in city and in village.

Rom.
(interrupting him impatiently).
There is among your villagers, I hear,
A person much afflicted.

Pie.
We were all well, both young and old of us,
When I left home scarce half an hour since. No;
My story is of other matters; villagers
Are not therein concerned, unless it be
As hired emissaries: for, I trow,
No wealthy devil e'er lack'd poorer imp.
No rich man ever wants—

Rom.
A truce with proverbs!
What is it thou wouldst tell me?

Pie.
Marry, that mischief, in or near your castle,
Is hatching secretly.

Rom.
Why dost thou think so?

Pie.
A ghost was seen by some benighted fools,
As they report it, near the ancient chapel,
Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely vanish'd
They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts.
'Tis said they're ominous of death; but weddings,
Or worse than weddings oft'ner follow after.
You have a rich and beauteous ward: Don Maurice
Is young, ambitious, and cunning:—No!
It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods.

Rom.
Was it a female form those fools beheld?

Pie.
Yes, by Saint Jago! and it wore, they say,
Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know,
Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice.

Guz.
We know all this already, worthy Pietro;
Nought ill will follow it; be thou content.

Rom.
If Beatrice hath in the shades of night
Gone forth to meet her lover, she hath err'd
Beyond what we believed. (Calling loud.)
Ho! Jerome there! Re-enter Jerome.

Thou wert the secret agent of Don Maurice;
In this thou'st sinn'd against thy master! Say,
And I'll forgive thee all if thou speak truly,
Did Donna Beatrice e'er, by night, steal forth
To meet him in the forest?

Jer.
No, good my lord; that I will answer truly;
She never did.

Rom.
Good Pietro tells a story
Of frighten'd villagers, who have, at night,
Seen wand'ring in the wood a female form.
Thou seem'st confused; thou, too, hast heard of this?

Jer.
Not heard of it, my lord.

Rom.
Then thou hast seen it.

Jer.
I must confess I saw a form, last night,
Glide hastily before me, through the wood:
The face I could not see.

Rom.
It was a woman?

Jer.
It was, my lord.

Rom.
Its stature tall or short?

Jer.
Neither, my lord.

Pie.
Did I not say it seem'd—

Guz.
(pulling Pietro back).
Hush, thou art wise, and shouldst not waste thy words.

Rom.
(to Jerome).
Did it resemble any female figure
Familiar to thine eye? Why dost thou hesitate?
Speak truth; speak freely; think not to deceive me:
Seem'd it a form familiar to thine eye?

Jer.
I was confused—I knew not. No, my lord,
It was no well-known form.

Rom.
Thy words are false!
[Walks perturbedly to and fro, then returning to them.
Why stand ye here to gaze upon me? Go!

Guz.
(to Pietro).
Retire, and do not speak to him again.
Save thee, good Pietro; and thou, too, Jerome.
[Exeunt Pietro and Jerome. (Going up to Romiero.)
Thou art bereft of reason. In the dark
A gliding form is seen, nor tall, nor short,
Nor having any mark by which to prove
It is, or is not any woman breathing;
And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped—

Rom.
Thou speakst in ignorance: I have good cause—
Cause which thou knowst not of. I'll tell thee more
When I have breath to speak.—
My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife,
Hath secret myst'ries—hath a beldame nurse—
Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends—O shame!—
Outrageous, frontless shame! the very picture
Which I have gazed upon a thousand times,
Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips.
How little thought I once—vain, vain remembrance!
It is a thing most strange if she be honest.

Guz.
How strange?—that thou thyself shouldst be deceived
As many men have been, which is a marvel
Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam?

Rom.
Deceived! be there witch-powder in mine eyes,
To make that seen which is not; in mine ears,
To make them hear false sounds? I've seen; I've heard:
I am deluded by no gossip's tale.—
O would I were! I loved—I worshipp'd her;
She was the thing that stirr'd within my soul,
Which had no other life. Despise me not;
For tears will force their way.—She was to me—
When I have power to speak, I'll tell thee all.

Guz.
Yes; pause awhile, my friend. Thou art too vehement.

Rom.
(lowering his voice).
Have they o'erheard me? Has it come to this,
That such as they should know my misery?
I will match wiles with wiles, and borrow of her
That damn'd hypocrisy. Come thou with me,
And give me counsel: thou thyself wilt own
It is no weak conceit disturbs me thus.
But stop, and stand aside.

[Stops on seeing nurse pass by a low window on the outside.
Guz.
What wouldst thou now?

Rom.
Here comes the beldame nurse of whom I spoke;
Returning from her mission, as I guess.
Stand thou aside whilst I engage with her,
And, with her own deceits, deceive the witch.
Do thou observe her visage as I speak.

Guz.
Nay; trust not to deceit; for at this moment
Thou hast not o'er thyself as much control
As would deceive the simplest soul on earth.
She will outwit thee; leave the task to me,
And do thou stand aside.—I hear her steps. Enter Nurse, while Romiero goes behind the arras.

Ha! my good nurse; thou art a stirring person,
And one of service in this family,
If I mistake it not. How could fair damsels,
And dainty dames, and other tender souls,
Endure the thraldom of stern lords and masters,
Brothers, and jealous guardians, and the like,
Were it not for such useful friends as thou?

Nurse.
I know not what you mean by service, sir;
I serve my mistress honestly and fairly.

Guz.
And secretly, when it must needs be so.
Do I not know it well, and well approve
Thy wary vigilance? Take this broad piece;
(giving gold)
A token of respect for all thy virtues.
Thou art, I know, the agent of Zorada
In all her secret charities: how fares it
With that poor invalid?

Nurse.
What invalid?

Guz.
To whom thou tookst that basket of fair fruit.
Let me attend thee when thou goest again;
I have some skill in med'cine.

Nurse.
I thank you, sir; I have some skill myself,
And that suffices. She will soon be well.

Guz.
It is a woman, then.—Look in my face:
Look at me steadfastly.—I know it is not.
It is a man; ay, and a man for whom
Thy lady hath some secret, dear regard.
And so, perhaps, hast thou: where is the harm?

Nurse.
And if there be, where is the harm of loving
Those near akin to us?

Guz.
Yes, fairly said! Who can find harm in that?

Nurse.
Whom should we love—I mean, whom should I love,
But mine own flesh and blood?

Guz.
Thy flesh and blood! lies flesh and blood of thine
So near us, and conceal'd?—A son, perhaps?

Nurse.
I have a son; but where he is conceal'd,
Or far, or near, I know not.

Guz.
Nay, nay, good nurse; think of next month's confession,
When lying must be paid for. Father Thomas
For a small penance will not let thee off.

[Here Romiero appears from behind the arras, with gestures of impatience, but draws back again.
Guz.
Knowst thou not where he is, this son of thine?
A handsome youth, no doubt.

Nurse.
As ever stepp'd upon the blessed earth.
When but an infant, he with fair Zorada
Play'd like a brother. Such a pretty pair!
And the sweet children loved each other dearly.
Would he were here! but where he is I know not.

Rom.
(bursting out upon her).
Vile wretch! thou liest; but thou shalt tell the truth.
I'll press the breath from out thy cursed body,
Unless thou tell me where thy son is hid.

Nurse.
My son, my lord!

Rom.
Ay, witch; I say thy son;
The ugliest hound the sun e'er looked upon.
Tell me, and instantly, if thou wouldst breathe
Another moment. Tell me instantly.

[Shaking her violently, while Guzman interposes, and Romiero, struggling with him, falls to the ground, and nurse escapes off the stage.
Guz.
(endeavouring to raise him).
I pray thee, pardon me, my noble friend!
When passion led thee to disgrace thyself,
This was an act of friendship.—Rise, Romiero.

Rom.
No; here upon the ground, my bed of agony,
I will remain. Sunk to this deep disgrace,
The centre of the earth were fitter for me
Than its fair surface, and the light of heaven.
Oh! this exceeds the worst imagination
That e'er found entrance to this madden'd brain!
That he—this hateful, vulgar, shapeless creature— Fy, fy.

Guz.
If thou canst harbour such a thought,
Thou art in verity beside thyself.
It is not possible that such a one
Could please Zorada, were she e'en unfaithful.

Rom.
(rising fiercely).
Not please her! every thing will please a woman
Who is bereft of virtue, gross, debased.
Yea, black deformity will be to her
A new and zestful object.

Enter Zorada behind him.
Guz.
(making her a sign to retire).
O lady! come not here.

Zor.
I heard Romiero loud; what is the matter?

Rom.
O nothing, madam; pray advance. O nothing!
Nothing that you should be surprised to hear.
That ladies can be fair and delicate,
And to the world's eye e'en as saints devout,
Yet all the while be coarse, debased, and stain'd
With passions that disgrace the vulgar kmd.

Zor.
Alas! what mean you?

Rom.
Thou'st played me false; thou art a worthless woman;
So base, so sunk, that those whose appellation
Brings blushes to the cheeks of honest women
Compared to thee are pure.—Off! do not speak!
It is a sick'ning sight to look upon thee,
Fair as thou art. Feign not to be surprised:
Begone, I say, I cannot for a moment
Say what I may not do.
[Taking his dagger from his side, and giving it to Guzman, who snatches it hastily from him.
Now thou art safe; but go, thou shameless creature

Guz.
Madam, I pray you go, for he is furious,
And would not listen to a saint from heaven.
[Exit Zorada, wringing her hands.
Come, leave this spot, Romiero; some few hours,
I am persuaded, will reveal this mystery.
Meantime, let me constrain thee as a friend;
Thou art not fit to speak or act with reason.

Rom.
Thinkst thou to bind and lead me like a maniac?

Guz.
Like what thou art: but here comes Beatrice.
Wouldst thou to her expose thy sorry state?

Enter Beatrice.
Rom.
To her or any one, what boot they now,
Fair seemings and fair words?

Bea.
Are you not well, my lord?

Rom.
No, damsel; well was banish'd from the world,
When woman came to it.

Bea.
Fy! say not so.
For if deprived of women, what were men?
Like leafless elms stripp'd of the clasping vine;
Like unrigg'd barks, of sail and pennant bare;
Like unstring'd viols, which yield no melody.
Banish us all, and lay my life upon it,
You will right quickly send for us again.

Rom.
Ay, as for parrots, jays, and kirtled apes,
To make vain sport withal. It makes me sick
To think of what you seem and what you are.

Bea.
But say not all, because there are a few.

Guz.
Fair lady, hold no further parley now.
(To Rom.)
And come with me, my friend.

[Exeunt Romiero and Guzman.
Bea.
(looking after him).
What strange tormenting fancy haunts him now?
She leads a life worse than an Eastern slave,
Who weds with such as he. Save me from that!

Enter Maurice by the window, having previously peeped in to see if she were alone.
Maur.
Dear Beatrice! to find thee thus alone—

Bea.
Good heaven preserve us! What has brought thee back?

Maur.
To see and hear thee, love, and yet again
To touch thy fair soft hand.

Bea.
An errand, truly,
To make thee track thy steps so many miles!

Maur.
An errand worth the toil e'en ten times told.
To see thy figure moving in thy veil,
Is worth a course of five good miles at least;
To see thy glowing face of welcome is,
At lowest reck'ning, worth ten score of leagues
By sea or land; and this soft thrilling pressure,—
O! 'tis worth all the leagues that gird the globe.

[Taking her hand.
Bea.
What idle words! how canst thou be so foolish?
I needs must chide thee for it, thoughtless boy!

Maur.
Chide me, indeed, who am two years thy elder,
And two good months to boot!—Such high pretension!
Have sixteen summers and a woman's robe
Made thee so very wise and consequential?

Bea.
(giving him two mock blows on his shoulder).
Take that, and that, for such discourteous words.

Maur.
(catching both her hands and kissing them separately).
Ay, marry will I, and right gladly too,
When this and this are added to the gift.

Bea.
Forbear such idle rapture, 'tis a folly:
So tell me truly what has brought thee back
To this disturb'd and miserable house.

Maur.
What, miserable still? Not yet convinced
That thou, and not Zorada, art the queen
Of my impassion'd heart?

Bea.
Of this, indeed,
He is convinced; but what doth it avail?
Some other fancy, yet I know not what,
Again possesses him. Therefore depart;
Quickly depart, nor linger longer here,
When thou hast told me wherefore thou art come.

Maur.
When some way off, it came into my head
That Don Romiero—the occasion past,
Which has excited him to favour us—
May be remiss, or may repent his promise.
I therefore quickly turned my horse's head,
Nor drew I bridle till within the forest
I found me once again, close to the postern.

Bea.
What wouldst thou do? for in his present state
Thou mayst not speak to him.

Maur.
But I would speak to Guzman; he has power
To keep Romiero steadfast in his promise.
I should have thought of this before I went,
And urged him earnestly that no remissness
With thy relations may retard our bliss.

Bea.
Are we not happy now? Is marriage bliss?
I fear to think of it.

Maur.
Why shouldst thou fear?
Shall I be jealous? O, my gentle Beatrice!
I never will believe thee false to me,
Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright
Shall flash upon me, and the agony
Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding.

Bea.
And art thou, then, so tender in thy nature?
In truth it makes me weep to think thou art.

Maur.
Let me wipe off those tears, my gentle love.
Think hopefully and cheerfully, I pray thee.
I feel within my breast a strong assurance
Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious.
Where may I find Don Guzman?

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The scene dark; the forest. Enter Jerome and another domestic, by opposite sides of the stage.
Jer.
Hast thou seen any thing?

Dom.
No; but I spy a distant moving light
Far to the left.

Jer.
Then run and see who bears it.
[Exit domestic.
Here come my lord and Guzman, slow and silent.
Surely they have not seen it; and, perhaps,
My comrade is deceived.

Enter Romiero and Guzman.
Rom.
Ha! Jerome! is it thou!

Jer.
It is, my lord:

Rom.
Hast thou seen aught? hast thou heard any sound?

Jer.
Nothing, my lord.

Rom.
Yet still be on the watch:
Revisit every path; let nought escape thee.

Jer.
No, nothing shall. I'll use both eyes and ears
Intently; nothing shall unnoted be.
An owlet shall not turn him in his nest
But I shall be aware of it, nor hare
Scud 'cross the path without my observation.

Rom.
Well, say no more: I trust thee. To thy duty!

[Exit Jerome.
Guz.
I am persuaded we shall range this wood
The livelong night, nor meet with any thing
But such small denizens as Jerome mention'd,
Or these benighted trees that skirt our path,
So black and motionless.

Rom.
Oh! if the light of day return again,
Nought being found to justify my fears,
I'll hail it as the wretch whose op'ning dungeon
Receives the light, as through its portal passes
Some glad friend, bearing his reprieve. Oh, Guzman!
The felon, chain'd to meet his shameful doom,
Hath not more agony of thought, nor starteth
With greater horror from the brink of death,
Than I do from that moment of despair
Which shall make manifest the thing I dread.

Guz.
I trust that moment never will arrive.

Rom.
Dost thou, my friend? dost thou, in very truth?
I bless thee for that noble confidence:
Would I could feel it too! Repeat thy words.

Guz.
I do believe that moment will not come.

Rom.
No, no! it was not thus: thy words are changed;
Thy tone of voice is changed; thoughts of recoil
Pass o'er thy mind, and turn their force to weakness.
Thou dost not trust,—no, nor believe it neither.

Guz.
Indeed, I think—I hope thou art deceived.

Rom.
Shame on such timid tamp'ring with my passion,
Provoking it the more! If she be guilty,
I am prepared with dreadful preparation.
If she be innocent,—tears choke my voice:
To say, “if she be innocent!”—
Her look, her smile, her easy lightsome gait,—
She was th'embodied form of innocence;
The simple sweetness of a cottage child,
Join'd to a lady's grace.

Guz.
Hers seem'd, indeed, the loveliness of virtue.

Rom.
Even so; but that is changed. She cannot now
So look, so smile, so step; for if she could,
I should defy all proof of circumstance
To move me to suspicion.

Guz.
Nay, good Romiero, know thy nature better,
A circumstance as trivial as the glance
Or meaning smile of some young varlet page
Would tempt thee to suspect a saint of heaven.
But cease debate; your scout returns in haste.

Enter Domestic.
Dom.
My lord, they're in the wood: I've seen them.

Rom.
Whom?

Dom.
The nurse, my lord, went first, and close behind her
Donna Zorada stole like one afraid.

Rom.
(seizing him by the throat).
Hell choke thy blasted breath, thou croaking fiend!
Thou darest not say 'twas she.

Dom.
I did not say so, certainly.

Rom.
Thou didst.

Dom.
I spoke unwittingly; I will unsay it.

Rom.
(casting him away from him with violence).
And be a damned liar for thy pains.
All that my darkest fancy had conceived!
Uncover'd shame, degrading infamy!—
Come quick, unstinted, terrible revenge!
If the base wantons live another hour,
I am as base as they.

Guz.
Be not a maniac: think before thou act,—
Before thou do what cannot be undone.

Rom.
Think ere I act! Cool, sober, gentle friend!
Hadst thou not better say, “Good sir, be patient.
Thy wife is faithless, and her minion bless'd;
But pray, good sir, be patient.”—Oh, my heart!
The seat of life will burst ere it be done:
Hold, hold till then! (To domestic.)
Where were they? near the castle?

Dom.
No; in the beechen grove beyond the chapel,
To which we did suspect their steps were bent,
Taking, no doubt, that further winding path
The better to avoid detection.—See,
There's light now faintly peering from its window.
They must be there already. (To Guzman.)
Look, Don Guzman!

Guz.
I do; it vanishes and re-appears,
And vanishes again, and all is dark.

Rom.
Yes; all shall soon be dark:
That flame of guilt, those glow-worms of the night,
That bright deceitful sheen of foul corruption,
Shall be extinct, trod out, earth bray'd with earth.
Which of these paths leads to th' accursed spot?
[Rushing into a path, and then turning back and taking another.
I am bewilder'd! this will lead me right.

[Exit.
Guz.
We must pursue his steps, and try, if possible,
To keep his unrein'd ire from desp'rate acts.

[Exeunt.
Enter, by the opposite side, Beatrice and her woman.
Bea.
He should be here, or somewhere near this spot.
I am afraid in these dark forest paths.
Each crooked leafless stump or dwarfish bush
Seems beast or man prepared to pounce upon us;
And then to make a vain and short amends,
Each slender, graceful sapling is my Maurice.
I dare not venture further.

Woman.
Perhaps we're wrong, and have mista'en the place;
Let us turn back, and try some other alley!

Bea.
Turn not; I hear his foot.

(Listening.)
Woman.
My ears then must be dull, for I hear nothing.

Bea.
Yes, they are dull; thou hast not in thy heart
That which doth quicken mine.—It is his footstep;
I know it well!

Woman.
Indeed, I should have guess'd—

Bea.
Nay, hush, Theresa;
I love to bend mine ear and listen to it.
[Listens again as before, and presently enter Maurice.
Is't thou, my friend?

Maur.
Yes, dearest; further on
I waited for thee, and became impatient.

Bea.
How glad I am to hear thy voice again!

Maur.
What hast thou done? How hast thou sped with Guzman?
Since thou wouldst take that office on thyself,
I trust thy parley with him was successful.

Bea.
As heart could wish, although it was but short.
He'll be our friend, and keep Romiero so;
And will, besides, to my stern uncle speak,
Who, as thou knowst—But here comes one in haste.

Enter Jerome.
Jer.
Remain no longer here; for Don Romiero,
And Guzman with him, wanders through the wood;
You may encounter him in any path.

Maur.
What shall we do?

Jer.
Be still, and follow me,
And I will lead you to a safer spot,
Free from intrusion, near the ruin'd chapel.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The inner porch of a ruined chapel. Enter Nurse and a Sea Captain, meeting.
Nurse.
Are all things ready then?

Capt.
The breeze is faint,
But it is fair; my seamen are on board;
We shall weigh anchor by the early dawn,
And bear us out to sea. Go, tell my passenger
To join us presently upon the beach.

Nurse.
I will, good captain: 'tis no thoughtless youth,
Who trows the very winds should wait his bidding;
He will be punctual. He hath seen good days,
Although I may not tell thee who he is.

Capt.
Nor do I ask thee.

Nurse.
He hath seen good days,
And evil too, and hath been buffeted
By wayward fate.

Capt.
Good mother, so have I.
But what of that? The foul, the fair will blow,
And we must weather it even as we may.
Speak not in such a lamentable tone;
I will be kind to him.

Nurse.
I hope thou wilt.
Heaven will reward thee, and Saint Jago too.

Capt.
Tut, woman! wherefore make so much ado
About some kindness to a fellow sinner?
I shall expect him ere the morning break;
And give him notice, for the time is near.

[Exit.
Nurse
(alone).
I will not yet break on their sad farewell,
But in the outer porch remain on watch.
Ah, woe the day! that they must thus, by stealth,
Take their last leave. I fear 'twill be their last.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

An old Gothic chapel: Sebastian and Zorada are discovered in earnest conversation.
Seb.
And wilt thou bear these lessons in thy mind?

Zor.
I shall forget to say my daily prayers
When I forget to think of thee, dear father!
And, when I think of thee, thy words of kindness,
And words of counsel too, shall be remember'd.

Seb.
Sweet child! stand back and let me look upon thee.
Ay; so she look'd. O! it is sweet in thee
To look so like thy mother, when mine eyes
Must take their last impression, as a treasure
Here (his hand on his heart)
to be cell'd for ever. Many looks
Thy varying face was wont to wear, yet never,
But in some sad or pensive mood, assumed
The likeness of that countenance;—to me
Thy loveliest look; though, to all other eyes,
Thy mother's beauty never equall'd thine.

Zor.
I still remember her: the sweetest face
That e'er I look'd upon. I oft recall it,
And strive to trace the features more distinctly.

Seb.
Be good as she was; and when I am gone,
Never again let myst'ry and concealment,
Tempting the weakness of thy husband's nature,
Which but for this were noble, break the peace
And harmony of marriage.—For this oath—
This fatal oath—he was constrain'd to take it.
Then so consider it, nor let it rankle
Within thy gentle breast: that were perverse.
When I am gone, all will again be well,
And I will write to thee and comfort thee.
Our minds shall still hold intercourse, dear Zada,
And that should satisfy.

Zor.
Alas! alas!
When I shall read thy letters, my poor heart
Will but the more yearn after thee, dear father!
And pine to see thee. Suffer me to hope
That we shall meet again.—Call it not vain,
But suffer me to think— Enter Nurse in alarm.

What is the matter?

Nurse.
You are discover'd: Don Romiero comes;
I heard his voice approaching through the trees.
I heard the hollow tread of many feet.

Zor.
(to Sebastian).
O fly! farewell!

Seb.
Farewell, my dearest child!
Heaven bless and guard thee ever! O farewell!

[Embraces her, and exit.
Zor.
If he should be discover'd!

Nurse.
Fear it not.
He knows the nearest path, and on the beach
The captain will receive him. Ere 'tis light,
He will be safely in the vessel lodged.
O all good saints of heav'n! he's here already.

Enter Romiero.
Rom.
Most wretched and degraded woman! Now
Thy shameful secret is discover'd. Now,
Vice unveiled and detestable must have
Its dreadful recompense. Where is thy minion?

Zor.
O cease! you frighten me with such fierce looks.
I have done thee no wrong.

Rom.
Provoke me not with oft-repeated words,
Which I do know are false as his who fell
Apostate and accursed. Where is thy minion?
[In a still louder voice, and stamping on the ground.
Tell me without delay: speak briefly, truly,
If thou hast hope to live another hour.

Zor.
O pity, pity! be not so enraged!
Thou shalt be told the truth a few hours hence;
Then, to that time, detest me as thou wilt,
But spare my life.

Re-enter Sebastian, while Romiero has, in his rage, stridden to the front of the stage. Zorada, uttering a shriek, runs to her father, and throws her veil over his face, endeavouring to push him back.
Seb.
What! fly and leave thee in a madman's power?
I heard his stormy voice, and could not leave thee.

[Romiero turns round, and, running furiously at them, stabs Zorada in aiming at Sebastian; Guzman, who enters in alarm, followed by Maurice and Beatrice, endeavouring, in vain, to prevent him.
Guz.
Hold! hold! thou wilt not strike a cover'd foe!

Zor.
(still clinging round her father).
Strike me again; I will not quit my hold.
I'll cling to him; within my dying grasp
I'll hold him safe: thou wilt not kill him there.

[Sinking to the ground, while the veil drops from the face of Sebastian.
Rom.
Her father!

Zor.
Yes; my father, dear Romiero!
Thou wilt not slay us both. Let one suffice!
Thou lovedst me once; I know thou lovest me now;
Shall blood so dear to thee be shed in vain?
Let it redeem my father!—I am faint,
Else I would kneel to thee.

[Endeavouring to kneel, but prevented and supported by nurse and Beatrice.
Nurse.
Do not, dear murder'd child!

Bea.
My dear, dear friend, forbear. He heeds thee not.

Guz.
Romiero, dost thou hear her sad request?

Rom.
I hear your voices murm'ring in mine ear
Confused and dismal. Words I comprehend not.
What have I done? Some dreadful thing, I fear.
It is delusion this! she is not slain:
Some horrible delusion.

Zor.
(aside to Sebastian).
Fly, fly, dear father, while he is so wild.
He will not know and will not follow thee.

Seb.
No, dearest child! let death come when it will,
I'll now receive it thankfully. Romiero,
Thou wretched murd'rer of thy spotless wife—
Romiero de Cardona!

Rom.
Who is it calls me with that bitter voice?
[Gazing on him; and then with a violent gesture of despair.
I know thee;—yes, I know what I have done.

Guz.
Forbear such wild and frantic sorrow now,
And speak to her while she is sensible,
And can receive thy words. She looks on thee,
And looks imploringly.

Rom.
Zorada, my Zorada! spotless saint!
I lov'd thee far beyond all earthly things,
But demons have been dealing with my soul,
And I have been thy tyrant and destroyer,
A wretch bereft of reason.

Bea.
She makes a sign as if she fain would speak,
But her parch'd tongue refuses. (To Maurice.)
Fetch some water
To moisten those dear lips and cool that brow.
[Exit Maurice.
She strives again to speak.

Rom.
(stooping over her.)
What wouldst thou say?
What means that gentle motion?

Zor.
Come close to me; thou'rt pardon'd, love, thou'rt pardoned.

Rom.
No, say that I am blasted, ruin'd, cursed,
Hateful to God and man.

Re-enter Maurice with water, which she tastes.
Zor.
Thou art not cursed; O no! then be more calm.
(Endeavouring to raise herself up.)
Look here; he is my father: think of that.
Thou'rt pardoned, love; thou'rt pardoned.

Rom.
She call'd me love. Did she not call me so?

Guz.
Yes, most endearingly.

Rom.
And she is gone, and I have murder'd her!
[Throws himself on the body, moaning piteously; then starts up in despair, and looks furiously at Sebastian.
Thou restless, selfish, proud, rebellious spirit!
Thy pride has work'd our ruin, been our bane;
The bane of love so bless'd! Draw, wretched man!
I've sworn an oath, which I will sacred hold,
That when Sebastian and myself should meet,
He should to royal justice be deliver'd,
Or, failing that, one of the twain should die.

[Drawing his sword fiercely upon him.
Guz.
(holding him back).
Hold, madman, hold! thy rage is cruel, monstrous,
Outraging holy nature.

Rom.
(breaking from him.)
Off! thinkst thou to restrain or bind despair
With petty strength like thine?—Proud rebel, draw!
I am thy daughter's murderer, and thou
Destroyer of us both.

Seb.
Yes, Don Romiero, we are match'd in ruin,
And we will fight for that which cures despair.
He who shall gain it is the conqueror.

[They fight, each exposing himself rather than attacking his adversary.
Rom.
No; to't in earnest, if thou wouldst not have me
Deliver thee a felon to the law.
Defend thine honour, though thou scorn thy life!
[They fight again, and Romiero falls.
I thank thee, brave Sebastian: O forgive
Harsh words that were but meant to urge contention.
Thou'rt brave and noble; so my heart still deem'd thee,
Though, by hard fate, compelled to be thy foe.—
Come hither, Guzman: thou hast sworn no oath.
Give me thy hand; preserve Sebastian's life,
And lay me in the grave with my Zorada.

[The curtain drops.

HENRIQUEZ:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• The King of Castile (Alonzo, surnamed the Noble).
• Don Henriquez, his general.
• Don Carlos, a noble soldier, attached to Henriquez.
• Antonio, a young gentleman in love with Mencia.
• Balthazar.
• Blas, a youth in the service of Leonora.
• A Friar, confessor to Henriquez.
• Diego, steward to Henriquez.
• Courtiers, confessors, attendants, gaolers, &c.

WOMEN

• Leonora, wife of Henriquez.
• Mencia, sister to Leonora.
• Inez, an attendant of Leonora.

Scene, the castle of Henriquez, a few leagues from the town of Zamora, and in the said town. Time, the beginning of the 13th century.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A grove near the castle.
Enter Diego with a letter, muttering to himself before he speaks aloud.
Diego.
The honour of the house of Altavera,
Of all those chiefs, whose bread I and my sires
So many years have eaten without reproach,
Must it be sullied now?—Diego Furnez
Must take upon him, then, th' informer's office,
With all its paltry baseness and concealment.
To Altavera's lords, with manly freedom,
My fathers spoke, and so have I. But then
I did oppose this marriage which hath sunk
His noble pride so low. Such information
From me would be suspected; and his anger,
When so excited, might, perhaps,—a blow!
Diego Furnez could not live disgraced,
And, dying unrevenged, would die disgraced.
Ay, it must be; necessity compels me.
Lays down the letter, then looking hastily about, snatches it up again.
Surely I hear a stranger's voice approaching.
I'll drop it farther on, and watch my time,
When Don Henriquez may be sure to find it.

[Exit.
Enter Antonio and Mencia, speaking as they enter.
Ant.
Forget thee, Mencia! Yes, I will forget thee
When means are found to make it possible.
Thine image, independent of my will,
Where'er I am, is with me; night and day
Before my fancy's eye it smiles or weeps;
Motions its arms, as thou wert wont to do,
When distance barr'd our intercourse of words;
Is present with me more than present things;
And makes my wretched life a maniac's dream,
Lost and unprofitable.
Is there some potent spell to lay this sprite
That haunts me to my ruin? Vain, vain words!
Thou canst not be forgotten.

Men.
Thou but deceiv'st thyself: there are two spells,
Absence and time, which have to many a lover
His peace restored. Fate has between us now
A barrier placed, which all my feeble strength
Could not o'erleap; therefore I have consented.

Ant.
Consented! O to what hast thou consented?
To more than the rejecting of my love,
Which thy ambitious sister, since the day
That raised her, as the wife of Don Henriquez,
To greatness, which she knows not how to bear,
Regards as too presumptuous. Thou art silent.
To more than this hast thou consented, Mencia?

Men.
Question me not; I cannot tell thee now;
Yet thou shouldst know. I have, alas! I have,
O'ercome by prayers, and wearied with contention,
Consented to bestow my luckless hand
On one who tried, but could not win my heart:
And I am bound—

Ant.
Thou art not! no, thou art not!

Men.
Alas, I am! and so will hold myself.

Ant.
Thou shalt not! Holdst thou sacred every tie,
But those that bind thee to thy earliest friend;
To him who was thy playmate and thy guard;
Who through thy native woods ran by thy side;
Play'd with thee, sang with thee, built thy first bower,
Where thou, his mimic mistress, kept thy state,
Screen'd from the mid-day sun, when he, the while,
Still pleased thee, as thou lentst thine eager ear,
With tales of wonderment and tales of love?
All claims but his! O say not so, sweet Mencia!
Let me implore thee on my bended knee!

Men.
Hush! rise! we are observed; this spot is now
Traversed by busy feet, in preparation
For a gay feast to-night, held at the castle,
In honour of Henriquez' safe return.
Leave me, I pray!

Ant.
By unfrequented paths,
Through rugged wilds I've travelled many a league:
Three irksome days and nights in that deep grove,
The ruin of an ancient sepulchre,
Like some unhallow'd spirit, I have haunted
To watch a lucky moment when thy steps
Should lead thee near the place; and having found thee,
Thinkst thou to cast me off with fev'rish haste,
As thou wouldst shake an adder from thy robe?

Men.
Nay, nay! for yonder Don Henriquez comes;
There's danger here.

Ant.
And come who will, and let what will betide,
Despair thinks not of danger.

Men.
Retire, retire, and we shall meet again.

Ant.
When? where? this night? to-morrow? name the time.

Men.
To-morrow by the early dawn I'll meet thee.
No; not to-morrow, but the following morn.

Ant.
And at that early hour?

Men.
Even so: retire.

Ant.
I have thy word for this?

Men.
Thou hast, thou hast. [Exit Antonio.
(Alone.)

Ay, he has loved me as no other will,
And thus he is requited. Woe the day!
Why did my timid spirit yield so poorly
To an ambitious sister?—Must it be?
Henriquez is a man whose native feelings
Of honour and of justice rise indignant
Against the slightest breach of honest faith.
The interests of his house to him were nothing
Opposed to generous ties—to simple right.
I will to him—ah, no! I dare not do it.
(Looking out.)
He is at hand. That paper keeps his eye
Intently occupied.—What can it be?
Perhaps some letter dropp'd by poor Antonio,
And then all is discover'd. Enter Henriquez.

You twist that letter in your hand, my lord,
As a most worthless thing. May I presume?
I am not curious.

Hen.
Yet thou hast a mind,
Not being curious, just to peep into it.
Well; it might case thy silken threads, perhaps,
Or wrap thy scented comfits. Take it then.
[Offering her the letter, and then drawing it back.
No; spells lurk in such crooked lines as these
To work unhappy fancies out of nothing.
Perhaps same hateful witch has mutter'd o'er it
Her blasting benison; thou shalt not have it:
I'll put it up to light my ev'ning lamp.
Thou goest?

Men.
I have been too long truant here,
And my neglected task calls me within.

[Exit.
Hen.
(alone).
Why look I still upon this foolish scroll?
As foolish as 'tis spiteful. Leonora
Has for her wicked solace in my absence
My noble friend—my second self received!
Good likely tale! [Reads again.

“An unknown friend cautions thee to beware of
Don Juan. He has played thee false in thine
absence, and destroyed thy wife's virtue and thine
own honour. Look to it, if thou wouldst not become
the most contemptible of all doating husbands: for
thy fond security will make them bold, and the
world will point at thee ere long.”
The common cant of all those friends unknown.
Juan and Leonora! blest, most blest,
In friendship and in love! This canker'd fiend
Is stung therewith. Envy most devilish,
Yet not uncommon in this wicked world.
Well; it shall serve to light my evening lamp;
God mend the wretch who wrote it.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A small ornamented apartment in the castle. Enter Blas and Inez, carrying different things in their hands, speaking as they enter.
Inez.
I leave thee too these cases of perfume,
And this small book of tales and warlike sports.
Place them as I have said, and be thou secret:
Be sure thou tell to no one for what guest
This chamber is prepared.

Blas.
But if I should, I should not break my word.
I guess'd it out myself; thou didst not trust me.

Inez.
Yes, but I did confirm thy guess, more surely
To rivet thee to secrecy. Thy lady
Will greatly be displeased, shouldst thou divulge it;
Therefore be prudent.—When thy task is done,
Thou'lt find me in the lower corridor.

[Exit.
Blas.
(murmuring to himself).
Be secret, tell to no one, and thy lady
Will greatly be displeased! What is't to me?
And yet I do not like this strange concealment.

[Employs himself in arranging different things, whilst he sings part of an old ballad.
Enter Henriquez.
Hen.
And is it thou, good Blas, who singst so well?
I heard thee as I cross'd the gallery,
And was led hither by the well-known tune
That, when a boy, I have so often heard.
But cease not; sing the rest of that old story.

Blas.
In sooth, my lord, I have forgot the rhymes.

Hen.
But canst thou not, without the rhymes, remember
The third escape which for her lawless lover
The wily dame devised?

Blas.
Yes, in a groom's attire she sent him forth
To hold her husband's stirrup at the gate,
As he alighted from his warlike barb.

Hen.
Was not her simple lord at length revenged?
And how was that, I pray?

Blas.
She had a step-son, who from Palestine
Return'd, and hearing of his father's wrongs,
Swore to revenge them.

Hen.
E'en so; I now remember it distinctly,
And the concluding lines sound in my ears.
Ay, many a time I've listened to that ditty:
She was a wicked dame of whom it tells.
Thinkst thou the rhymester knew of such a one?
Or be there any such?

Blas.
I do not know: there may—and there may not.

Hen.
May, or may not! thou needst not blush so deeply.
What's thy employment here? Some new arrangement.
Thy lady's private closet so disturb'd!
Ay, and this curtain'd couch!—For whom, I pray,
Prepare ye this, good Blas?

Blas.
I do not know, my lord.

Hen.
Thou dost not know!
Why dost thou blush so strangely as thou speakst?
Compose thyself; I do not seek to know.
What scented thing is this? it smells most sweetly.

Blas.
It is a box of aromatic gums.

Hen.
It needs must be some dainty fair, for whom
Such delicacies are provided. Ay,
And learned too, I guess, for here are books.
A soldier's book!
(Turning over its leaves.)
Ha! 'tis mine own old friend.

Blas.
His name is then upon it.

Hen.
Thou seemst alarm'd, methinks: how's this? whose name?

Blas.
I do not know, my lord. Your own old friend.

Hen.
It was the book I call'd so: in my youth
It was my favourite study.

Blas.
I had forgot; the book is yours, my lord,
And only borrow'd now for his amusement.

Hen.
For her's, thou meanst: is't not a female guest?
Blushing again! What mystery is here?
Tell me for whom this chamber is prepared.
[Pause.
Thou wilt not answer. Nay, I will not force thee;
But tell me only—is this guest a woman?
What! silent still! 'tis not a woman then?

Blas.
No, good my lord.

Hen.
Some fav'rite page, perhaps, who for the night
Must near his dame be lodged?—It is not this?
I do command thee tell me who it is;
[Taking hold of him roughly.
For by thy face I see too well thou knowest.
What guest sleeps here to-night?

Blas.
Don Juan is the guest; this is the room
Where he is wont to sleep.

Hen.
Is wont to sleep! Has he been here of late?

Blas.
'Tis said he has been here; for me, I know not.

[Henriquez, turning slowly from him, walks to the bottom of the stage.
Blas
(aside, looking after him).
Surely he heard my words; yet calm and silent!
No further question following my reply!
Fool that I was to be so much afraid,
Since he regards it lightly.

Hen.
(returning).
Where is thy lady?

Blas.
She gives directions in the pillar'd hall;
At least I left her there a short time since.

Hen.
Go, see, and bring me word.
[Exit Blas.
[After a pause, and then muttering indistinct words.
[Looking at it near, and taking it in his hands.
(After a pause.)
[Returning to the casket, and taking out other papers.

Re-enter Blas.
Blas.
My lord, I've found her: Donna Leonora
Has bid me say she will be with you instantly.

Hen.
I cannot see her now: I am not well.
I shall be better shortly: tell her so.
I'll rest me in my chamber for an hour,
And would not be disturb'd. Prevent her coming;
And say I would repose. Go, tell her quickly.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

Enter Leonora and Mencia, followed by Diego, speaking as they enter.
Diego.
It shall be done; I understand you, madam;
Those lofty plumes must grace the seat of honour,
The chair of Don Henriquez.

Leo.
Yes; and the chair of Don Henriquez' wife:
See that they both be graced.

Diego.
Never but once,
(Lady, forgive the freedom of my words,)
Never but once before was chair of state
Beneath this roof so crested: years gone by,
When Don Henriquez' father, from the king,
Held in these parts, then threaten'd with commotions,
A regent's power. And then his noble lady,
Although the blood of kings ran in her veins,
Did at due distance humbly take her place
On a low stool, unmark'd by any honour.

Leo.
Ay, good Diego, such meek humble dames
Have lived, as we are told, in former days.
Do as I have desired thee.

Diego
(aside, murmuring as he goes out).
Lofty dame!
Making so proud a stir, like some pert hedgeling,
Chirping and flutt'ring in an eagle's nest.

[Exit.
Men.
Sister, you aggravate the mark'd dislike
That old domestic bears you: be more gentle.

Leo.
O he dislikes me not; it is his humour.
Dislike me! Have I not to him and his
Been even profuse in gifts? The foolish thought!

Men.
Ay; but the meekness of his former lady,
She, too, who had a king's blood in her veins,
Dwells in his heart, and beggars all thy gifts.

Leo.
Thou'rt fanciful.

Men.
Nay, nay! and why so fond
Of splendid pomp? Compared to what thou wast,
Thy marriage with Henriquez made thee great;
This doth not make thee greater; woe the day!
Nor happier neither.

Leo.
Woe the day! Poor dove!
That would beneath the cottage eaves for ever
Sit moping in the shade with household birds,
Nor spread thy silver plumage to the sun.

Men.
The sun hath scorch'd my wings, which were not made
For such high soaring.
He who would raise me to his nobler rank
Will soon perceive that I but grace it poorly.

Leo.
Away with such benumbing diffidence!
Let buoyant fancy first bear up thy merit,
And fortune and the world's applause will soon
Support the freight. When first I saw Henriquez,
Though but the daughter of a humble house,
I felt the simple band of meadow flowers
That bound my hair give to my glowing temples
The pressure of a princely coronet.
I felt me worthy of his love, nor doubted
That I should win his heart, and wear it too.

Men.
Thou dost, indeed, reign in his heart triumphant;
Long may thy influence last.

Leo.
And fear not but it will. These pageantries
Give to the even bliss of wedded love
A varied vivifying power, which else
Might die of very sloth. And for myself,
My love for him, returning from the wars,
Blazon'd with honours, as he now returns,
Is livelier, happier, and, methinks, more ardent,
Than when we first were married. Be assured
All things will favour thee, if thou hast spirit
To think it so shall be. Thou shak'st thy head.
It is not reason, but thy humble wish,
Thy low ignoble passion that deceives thee,
And conjures up those fears. Weak wav'ring girl!
Art thou not bound?

Men.
Weakness in yielding to your will, indeed,
Has fetter'd me with bands my heart disowns.

Leo.
Fy! say not so. Hush! let not that sad face
O'ercloud the joy my gen'rous lord will feel,
When he discovers what we have conceal'd,
With playful art, to make his joy the keener.
Hush! here comes Blas again.

Enter Blas.
Blas.
He will not yet.
I have been watching near his chamber door,
And when I gently knock'd, as you desired,
He answer'd me with an impatient voice,
Saying his head was drowsy, and lack'd rest.

Leo.
I'll go myself.

Blas.
Nay, madam, do not yet.
I guess that some cross humour has disturb'd him;
Sleep will compose it.

Leo.
Humour, dost thou say!
He ne'er was cross with me.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The private apartment of Henriquez, with his chair and table, and a lamp burning on the table; the stage lighted only by this lamp.
Enter Henriquez with a sword in his hand, which he lays on the table in the light, shrinking back as he looks at it.
Hen.
The blood!—this blood!—his blood!—O dismal change!
When rose the sun of this sad day; how gladly
Would I have shed mine own, to have sav'd one drop
Of what was then so dear! (Pushing it into the shade.)
Be from my sight!
It wrings my heart: and yet so black a stream,
So base, so treacherous, did never stain
The sword of holy justice.
(After sitting down, and gazing some time on the ground.)
This is a pause of rest from the first act,
The needful act of righteous retribution.
Oh! is it rest? The souls that fell from light
Into the dark profound, cut off from bliss,
Had rest like this.
(Pressing his temples tightly with both hands.)
How furiously these burning temples throb!
Be still! be still! there's more behind to do;
But no more blood: I will not shed her blood.
(Knocking at the door.)
Who's there?

Voice.
Are you awake, my lord?

Hen.
What dost thou want?

Voice
(without).
The banquet is prepared, the guests assembled,
Your grooms are waiting, and your vestments ready.
Will you not please, my lord, to let them enter?

Hen.
(to himself).
The guests assembled! Vile bewild'ring dream!
I had forgot all this. I must appear.

Voice
(without).
Will you be pleased, my lord, to let them enter?

Hen.
Be still—be still; I'll open to them presently.

[Exit hastily into an inner chamber, taking the sword with him.

SCENE II.

The grand hall of the castle lighted up magnificently. Leonora, Mencia, Carlos, and company discovered; music, which presently ceases, and Enter a Servant.
Leo.
(aside to servant).
How is thy master? Has he left his chamber?

Serv.
(aside to Leonora).
Yes; he will soon appear; he is preparing.

Leo.
(aloud).
Indeed, indeed, I have been much concern'd
That Don Henriquez has, from sudden illness,
Been tardy in respect to noble guests
Whom he so truly honours; but I hope—
(Flourish of trumpets.)
Ha! who is this? Some guest in princely state.

Enter Servant.
Serv.
The king is at the gate.

Leo.
The king! a great surprise! unlooked-for honour!
I'll to the gate. (To the music.)
Strike up a royal welcome!

[Exeunt Leonora, Carlos, and others, while the music plays a grand martial air; then
Re-enter Leonora, &c., conducting the King, attended, who receives the homage, and continues speaking in dumb-show to many of the company, till the music ceases.
King
(to Leonora).
Fair hostess, I am come in homely trim
For such a gay assembly.

Leo.
Your poor servants
Are greatly honour'd by this condescension;
A glad surprise, so far beyond our hopes.

King.
Ay, and beyond mine own, fair dame; but finding
From wrecks of mountain torrents, or neglect,
The straight road to Zamora was impassable,
I took the wider compass, and proceeding
Through these domains by favour of the night,
Your castle from its woods look'd temptingly,
And beckon'd me afar to turn aside.
The light from every lattice gaily stream'd,
Lamps starr'd each dusky corridor, and torches
Did from the courts beneath cast up the glare
Of glowing flame upon the buttress'd walls
And battlements, whilst the high towers aloft
Show'd their jagg'd pinnacles in icy coldness,
Clothed with the moon's pale beam.
—It pleased my fancy;
And here I am, a hasty visitor,
Who must Zamora reach by early day;
Where many a lofty lord, and learned clerk,
And all the rogues and robbers of the district
Await my coming.

Car.
All of them, my liege?

King.
I spoke at random, like a graceless layman:
More than the church's portion were presumption,
A tithe of them will do.—Here is Henriquez.

Enter Henriquez, richly dressed.
Hen.
My humble homage to your highness: welcome
To my poor house, so honour'd by your presence.

King.
I thank thee, brave Henriquez, but I fear
'Tis an untimely visit; thou'rt unwell.

Hen.
Nought but a passing ailment; do not name it.

King.
In faith your face is wan, and strangely changed,
And would become a sober beadsman's frock
More than a festive mantle. How is't with you?
Retire again to rest.

Hen.
My face speaks falsely, I am much recover'd.
Here is the cup of welcome; will your grace
Be pleased to honour me.

[Taking a cup from a servant, and presenting it on one knee to the King.
King.
All good be on your head, and this fair dame's!
[Bowing to Henriquez and Leonora, and then drinking.
Fair ladies and brave lords, well be ye all!

[Bowing to the company, and drinking again.
Hen.
(to the servant, who is pouring out a cup for him).
Up; fill it to the brim.
Health to the king, and a long happy reign!
[Drinks.
To all my honour'd guests health and good welcome!

[Drinks again.
King.
A goodly company: here are, methinks,
High blood enough, plumed hats and coronets,
To furnish out a court.

Leo.
They honour this poor feast which I have fashion'd.
To grace my lord's return.

King.
You have done well; and I should grace it too,
Who was the greatest gainer by his absence,
When he with brave companions like himself
Against the Moors did for the state good service,
As Alcantara, by their valour won,
And now a noble hold for Christian knights,
Can nobly testify.
I speak not of the Navas de Tolosa,
Where he upon that memorable day
Broke through the Moslem chain of armed guards,
Changing their strength to slaughter and dismay:
We are too apt to speak of recent services.
Former or recent, would I could repay them!

Hen.
Your bounty has already done it nobly.

King.
Fy, fy! a trifle; what would scarce maintain
A rustic lord, who dozes life away
In his porch'd hall, where hawks wink on the perch,
And hounds lie sleeping round him. Take this ring:
My royal father wore it many a day;
And whatsoe'er thou shalt request of me,
Returning to my hand this pledge again,
It shall be granted, were it half the realm.

Hen.
(receiving it on his knee).
I thus receive it with all humble duty.
[Rising with forced animation.
But let us now be gay: the time wears on.
By early dawn I must attend your highness,
To reach Zamora by th' appointed hour.

Leo.
I am rejoiced to see you so recovered.

[To Henriquez.
Hen.
I thank you, lady; let your guests receive
Your present courtesies.—Where are the minstrels?
Let them strike up a dance: we are too still.

Leo.
Doubt not we shall be gay; but we expect
Some merry masquers here to join our revels;
They should have come ere now.

Hen.
Wait ye for such? Are they not come already?

Leo.
How so, my lord?

Hen.
The world is full of them:
Who knows the honest unclothed worth of those
That by your side may stand, drink from your cup,
Or in your bosom lie? We are all masquers.

King.
Your wine has cheer'd you to a gibing humour;
You are severe, my lord, on this poor world.

Hen.
If I have said amiss, e'en let it pass:
A foolish rev'ller may at random speak:
Who heeds his idle words?—Music strike up.

[Music; the King retires with Henriquez to the bottom of the stage, and the guests prepare to dance, when Blas with a face of horror enters the hall, and beckons Carlos aside.
Car.
What dost thou want?

Blas.
A fearful thing has happen'd;
And to my lord, or Donna Leonora,
It may not hastily be told.

Car.
What is't?

Blas.
A murder'd body near the castle lies,
But newly slain; and they who found it swear
(For well they know his form and countenance),
It is Don Juan's body.

Leo.
(who has stolen near them to listen).
Don Juan's body, saidst thou? Is he dead?

Blas.
Yes, madam, they have found him in the wood
Lifeless and—

Leo.
Oh, I guess thy horrid look!
And he is murder'd? Dreadful, barbarous deed!

[Exclaiming aloud.
[All quit their places for the dance, and crowd round Leonora, who is supported by Mencia, appearing also affected, whilst Henriquez, at a distance, observes them intently.
Leo.
(recovering).
O Carlos! tell my lord the horrid tale.
I must retire.

[Exit with Mencia and other ladies.
King
(coming forward with Henriquez).
Some strange commotion here!

Hen.
(to Carlos).
What has befallen?

Car.
What will most keenly rend your noble heart;
Yet to a soldier I should tell it plainly:
Don Juan, from some secret villain's stroke,
Has met his fate this night, and near your walls.

Hen.
Away! Howl not so wild a dirge to me:
Far distant from these walls, full many a league,
Don Juan surely is. Ye are deceived.

Blas
(shaking his head).
No, no! O no!

Car.
I fear he tells us true.

Hen.
He wrote to me, not many days ago,
A letter, dated from his northern seat,
Which made no mention of his visit here:
If what you say be true, it is most strange.
I'll be assured if it, indeed, be so.

[Going hastily.
Car.
(preventing him).
Retire, and I will see it ascertain'd:
You shall not look upon so sad a sight.

King
(to Henriquez).
Retire, my lord: it were not fit you went.
Your noble guests beseech you to retire.

Hen.
I will obey your grace. I thank ye all.

[Exeunt Henriquez and Carlos severally.
King
(to the guests).
Were it not well that we should all retire?
Our banquet to a funeral wake is turn'd,
And cannot cheer us now.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An inner court of the castle, lighted by a lamp over the gateway, the stage otherwise dark. Enter Diego and two servants, with dark lanterns, speaking loud and confusedly as they enter.
1st serv.
I could be sworn to it. Go tell my lord:
Why hold we here such idle altercation?

Diego.
He must not be disturbed.

1st serv.
How not disturbed?

Enter Carlos above, looking down from an open corridor.
Car.
Ho! who are ye who talk so eagerly?
What is the matter?

1st serv.
The murderer is found: come down, Don Carlos!
For we would fain pursue him through the wood,
But thus unarm'd we dare not.

[Exit Carlos above.
2d serv.
Ay, he is coming: he will be our warrant,
And tell us what to do.

Re-enter Carlos below.
Car.
Well, friends, what did you say? the murderer?

1st serv.
Yes; I can swear 'tis so: I would have followed him,
But, lacking arms, I durst not.

2d serv.
So would I.

1st serv.
Give us some stout companions and good weapons,
And, scatt'ring different ways, we'll scour the wood,
And seize him shortly.

Car.
In the wood ye found him?

2d serv.
Yes; as we went, out-stripping our companions,
To bear Don Juan's body to the castle.

Car.
How guess you 'tis the murderer?

1st serv.
A youthful cavalier for several days
Has been secreted in the wood. I've seen him;
And the dark form that cross'd my light e'en now
I could be sworn is he.

Diego.
It is not likely that the murderer
Should be so near the slain. He would, methinks,
Run from the spot forthwith.

Car.
True, ne'ertheless
A mind distracted in a wood so tangled
Might run and make no way. (To servants.)
Go ye forth:
I will myself assist your search. But, first,
We'll fetch our weapons. Ha! what noise is that?
[Noise without.
'Tis voices at the gate.

1st serv.
It is the body.
(Voice calling from the outer court.)
Ho, there!
Who watch within? Lend us your aid,
We know not where to bear it.

Omnes.
It is the body.

[Exeunt, running eagerly through the gateway.
Enter Mencia below, who has appeared before listening in the corridor.
Men.
He will be found and seiz'd: they'll have no mercy.
The dreadful doom! O heaven, have pity on him!

Enter Inez.
Inez.
What is the matter, madam? Whither go you?

Men.
I cannot tell.

Inez.
Go in, I do beseech you,
And stay in your apartment. I, mean time,
Will be upon the watch, and bring you word
When they return. Think you that there has been,
For I have listen'd too, a cavalier
Secreted in the wood?

Men.
No; heed me not;
I know not what I say.

Inez.
Yet stay not here, lest you should raise suspicion;
Return to your apartment; be entreated.

[Exeunt, Inez leading off Mencia.

SCENE IV.

Enter Leonora and Carlos by opposite sides.
Car.
Madam, I have obey'd your summons; say
Whate'er my humble service may perform.
How fare you after this most dismal shock?

Leo.
As one who hath a friend and husband both
In one dire tempest lost. And, noble Carlos,
Grief triumphs over pride, when even to thee,
Though knowing well thy friendly worth, I own it.
He was—I mean Henriquez—Oh! he was
To me most strangely alter'd ere this stroke.

Car.
You are deceived; expecting to retain
The undiminish'd empire of his heart
Beyond the usual term of bridegroom weakness.
It could not be.

Leo.
No; I am not deceived.
Sickness did yesterday for many hours
Confine him to his chamber; yet in vain
Did I entreat admittance—I, who used
To soothe his saddest hours, if any sad
Could pass when I was near him.—
And now again he is shut up alone,
And has refused to see me. Worthy Carlos,
Do me a kindness: go thou to his door,
And beg admittance; then in my behalf,
Since by another's influence I must move him,
Crave audience even for a few short moments.

Car.
Nay, charming Leonora, urge him not:
He will admit thee when he is disposed
For soothing sympathy; to press it sooner
Were useless—were unwise.

Leo.
Yet go to him; he will, perhaps, to thee,
So long his fellow-soldier and his friend,
Unburthen his sad heart.

Car.
You are in this deceived. His fellow-soldier
I long have been. In the same fields we've fought;
Slept in one tent, or on the rugged heath,
Wrapt in our soldier's cloaks, have, side by side,
Stretch'd out our weary length like savage beasts
In the same cheerless lair; and many a time,
When the dim twilight of our evening camp
Has by my foolish minstrelsy been cheer'd,
He has bent o'er me, pleased with the old strains
That pleased him when a boy; therefore I may,
As common phrase permits, be call'd his friend.
But there existed one, and only one,
To whom his mind, with all its nice reserve
Above the sympathies of common men,
He freely could unfold; and having lost him,
Can I intrude upon his private thoughts
Like one who would supply a vacant place?
His heart, I know it well, would from such boldness
Revolt, even with disgust.

Leo.
Yet Juan's death did seem to move him less
Than such dear friendship might have warranted.

Car.
It was his custom to restrain his looks
When strongly moved, or shun all observation.

Leo.
And I am now become that humble thing,—
A wife shut out from equal confidence!

Car.
Have patience, madam, take it not so deeply.

Leo.
I would have patience,—

Car.
Hush! we're interrupted.

Enter Blas.
Blas
(to Leonora).
Don Juan's secretary is arrived,
Who brings with him—so has he bid me say—
Papers of great importance, which he begs
May, and without delay, to Don Henriquez,
In presence of due witnesses, be read.

Leo.
It is a happy thing; this call will rouse him;
Be thou the bearer of this message, Carlos;
He cannot think thee an intruder now.

Car.
I will obey you.

Leo.
And be sure immediately
To give me notice how he has received it.

Car.
I will not fail.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE V.

A spacious apartment. Enter Balthazar, followed by Blas, carrying a case with papers, which he lays on a table.
Bal.
(after examining it).
Is Don Henriquez ready, gentle youth?

Blas.
He'll soon be here; the lady is at hand,
With others, who will witness what you read.

Bal.
I'm glad she comes to soothe his gloomy grief,
For I have that to read will move him greatly.

Blas.
I doubt it not: Don Juan loved him well,
As it was thought.

Bal.
Sayst thou, as it was thought!
I've often seen them spend whole days together,
Neglecting all the sports of hall or field,
In some sequester'd corner, side by side,
Pacing, though young, with the slow steps of age,
Each like the other's shadow; while, by turns,
Such power of words flow'd from them, and their eyes
With pleasure or with gentle anger flush'd,
As the keen wilful sporting of their minds
Through some wild chace of thought pursued the game.
I mark'd them oft: it was a pleasing sight.

Blas.
Were they, indeed, such dear and loving friends?

Bal.
Yes, gentle youth, they were. It seem'd, in truth,
As though each kept his thoughts i' th' other's breast,
Lock'd up e'en from himself, having when met,
And only then, free use of his own treasure.

Blas.
So closely knit?

Bal.
Yes; I have seen Henriquez
By Juan's sick-bed sit, night after night,
Like tenderest nurse watching her infant charge;
And then I've seen the tears course down his cheeks,—
His youthful face all shrunk and pale with grief.
Such dear and manly friendship knew I never.

Enter Leonora and Carlos, followed by Diego, who then retires with Blas to the bottom of the stage.
Leo.
(after a pause).
I think I hear him coming.

Car.
I think so too; yet grief is slow of foot,
And those are rapid strides like one in haste.

Enter Henriquez, who returns slight and sullen acknowledgments to their civilities, and going directly to a seat prepared for him, sits down without speaking.
Bal.
(to Henriquez, after a pause).
My lord, here is a will, with other papers,
Which your deceased friend, my noble master,
Committed to my keeping six days since,
When he departed from his native home.
His ancient fav'rite hound howl'd piteously
As from the gate we prick'd our steeds, and yet
We took no heed of it, nor thought, alas!
That he would ne'er return.—Please you, my lord,
That it should first be read?

Hen.
Proceed; I'll listen.

Bal.
From the great love, above all men besides,
Which living he did bear you—

Hen.
Nay, proceed;
There needs no prologue to it.

Bal.
(reading).

“The last will of me, Juan de Torva, written and signed by mine own hand, as these characters testify, is this. I bequeath to my beloved, my early, my only friend, Don Henriquez d'Altavera, the whole of my lands, my castles, my dependencies, my treasures, to be possessed by him and his heirs for ever; and for as much as I have more confidence in the wisdom and generous propriety of his judgment than my own, I leave those whose names (also by mine own hand) are herein written, to be provided for, as he, thinking and acting for me when I shall no longer be able to think and act for myself, shall deem right. These, with the last love and blessing of my heart I bequeath to him; desiring that my poor earthly remains may be laid in the same spot where he himself shall be interred.

May God have mercy on the soul of a humble sinner! Done with mine own signature. “Juan De Torva.”

Here follow names of many old dependants,
And witnesses who saw him sign this deed;
Shall I repeat them?

Hen.
(motions him to forbcar, and after covering his face with his hands for a moment or two).
You also spoke, I think, of other papers:
The date of this is, as I guess, remote.

Bal.
Nay, it is recent—only two months since.

Hen.
So late as that!—You mention'd other deeds.

Bal.
Yes, good my lord; entrusted to my keeping,
Here is besides a marriage contract made
Between himself and the fair Mencia.

Hen.
(starting from his chair with violent gesture).
What didst thou say? The sister of my wife?
Say it again: I know not what thou saidst.

Bal.
It is, my lord, a marriage contract made
Between himself and Donna Mencia,
The sister of your wife; to whom by stealth,
The lady being somewhat disinclined,
He has of late made frequent visits; hoping
Last night, with her consent, to have surprised you,
When as a masquer he should join the guests,
By asking from your love a brother's blessing.

[Henriquez falls back into his chair, uttering a deep groan.
Leo.
(rushing to him in great alarm).
Alas! so strong an agony is here,
The hand of death is on him.

Car.
'Tis but the pitch and crisis of his grief:
Be not alarm'd; he will recover quickly.

[Diego, coming forward, speaks aside to Leonora.
Diego.
Bid all withdraw, and be with him alone
When he recovers.

Leo.
(aside).
How when he recovers?
Alone with him! I know not what thou meanst.

Diego
(speaking to her aloud).
My lord has from his youth been thus affected,
When press'd by grief; I've seen him so before.
And when the fit goes off, I've known him also
Utter wild ravings. Solitude and stillness
Are necessary. Pardon me this boldness.

Leo.
Thou'st seen him thus before?

Diego.
It is a patural infirmity;
Let all retire and leave him.

Leo.
(motions all to retire but Carlos).
Don Carlos will remain.

[To Diego.
Diego.
None but yourself, I do beseech you, madam;
And I will watch by you till he recover.

[Exeunt all but Diego, Leonora, and Henriquez, who, while she hangs over him, groans as before.
Leo.
That groan again! My dear—my dear Henriquez!
Alas! that look! thine agony is great:
That motion too! (He rises.)
Why dost thou stare around?
We are alone; surely thou wilt not leave me.
Where wouldst thou be?

Hen.
I' the blackest gulf of hell;
The deepest den of misery and pain;
Woe bound to woe—the cursed with the cursed!

Leo.
What horrible words, if they have any meaning!
If they have none, most piteous!—
Henriquez; O, my lord!—My noble husband!
I thought not thou wouldst e'er have look'd on me
As thou hast done, with such an eye of sternness.
Alas! and hadst thou nothing dear on earth
But him whom thou hast lost?

Hen.
I had, I had! Thy love was true and virtuous.
And so it is: thy hand upon my breast.
[Pressing her hand, which she has laid upon his breast.
I feel it—O how dear!
[Is about to kiss it, but casts it from him.
It must not be!
Would thou wert false! Would grinding contumely
Had bow'd me to the earth—worn from my mind
The very sense and nature of a man!
Faithful to me! Go, loose thee from my side;
Thy faithfulness is agony ineffable,
It makes me more accursed. Cling not to me:
To taste the slightest feeling of thy love
Were base—were monstrous now.—Follow me not!
The ecstasy of misery spurns all pity.

[Exit.
Diego.
And do not follow him: O do not, madam!
This fearful fit will soon exhaust its strength,
And leave his reason free.

Leo.
God grant it may! It is a fearful fit.
But thou thyself lookst strangely, and thy visage
Seems haggard with a passing consciousness—
Thou dost not think—

Diego.
No, no! what should I think?
Retire to your apartment: I meantime
Will watch my lord, that none may cross his way
Till he be safely lodged within his chamber.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

A narrow hall or passage. Enter Carlos and Balthazar.
Car.
(calling to somebody behind him as he enters).
Go, bid those spearmen from the armourer
Receive their pageant suits, and let the warder
Hang o'er the battlements his sable flag!

Bal.
And will not Don Henriquez, then, in person
Attend the funeral rites?

Car.
His ancient steward
Has signified to me his lord's desire
That I should fill his place in every thing
Respecting this sad ceremony.

Bal.
Have you not seen himself?

Car.
No; grief so stern, so cover'd and profound,
I never knew: he has refused to see me.

Bal.
They say his ghostly father hath been summon'd:
He'll try to soften his untoward grief.

Car.
I hope he will; but pass we on, I pray.

Bal.
The murd'rer has, I hear, escaped their search.

Car.
He did escape, if it was any thing,
Those frighten'd peasants saw.

Bal.
In truth it is a black, mysterious deed;
And, as it strikes my mind—

Car.
Some other time:
Pass on, I pray, our business must proceed.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The grand court of the castle.

Enter a pompous funeral procession by an arched way at the right side of the bottom of the stage, and crossing it in a diagonal line, passes out by the left side of the front; which joins the massed richness of a perspective to the distinctness of a side view.

SCENE II.

A small private apartment. Enter Leonora, walking thoughtfully across the stage; then enter Diego, upon which she turns, and goes up to him, without speaking.
Diego
(after pausing for her to speak first).
They told me, madam, you desired to see me.

Leo.
Yes, good Diego, I would speak with thee;
Yet what I have to say comes of no sense,—
Mere curiosity,—a woman's humour.
Looking from my apartment not long since,
Methought I saw thee in the inner court,
Earnest in conversation with Balthazar.
I mark'd you for a while, and his strange gestures
Seem'd those of anger rather than of grief.

Diego.
He was, in truth, somewhat intemperate.

Leo.
What has disturb'd him?

Diego.
He is a man by nature cross and captious,
And hardly to be satisfied.

Leo.
How so?
Has aught been wanting in the funeral honours
Paid to his master?

Diego.
No; it is not that.
He rather thinks we have been more intent
On idle pageantry, than truly zealous
In finding out the murd'rer of his lord;
'Twas this did move him to unseemly warmth,
And words which I may not repeat.

Leo.
(eagerly).
What words?
Does he suspect—No; what should he suspect?
[Pausing and gazing on Diego, who is silent.
Thy face looks pale and haggard. Did he name him?

Diego.
Name whom?

Leo.
No, no one. This bewilder'd brain
Will run on things too wildly fanciful.
I'll speak to him myself; he shall be satisfied.
Search shall be made without delay. Go to him,
And tell him I would see him privately.

Diego.
He is not here.

Leo.
What! not within the walls?

Diego.
Mounted upon his master's swiftest steed,
He left the castle short while since; ere this
He must be near Zamora.

Leo.
Why such haste?

Diego.
I know not; 'tis, perhaps, to gain admission,
Before the opening of his royal court,
To the king's private ear.

Leo.
(alarmed).
Most strange! some thought— some dark imagination
Has worked him to this frenzy.—Tell me truly
Where his suspicions rest: for he has spoken
Words which thou wouldst conceal. Spoke he in hints?
O tell me all!—He did not name Henriquez?

Diego.
No; by the noble house of Altavera,
Had he so done that word had been his last.
Diego Furnez, aged as he is,
Had ne'er stood by with rapier by his side
To hear his master's honour rudely stain'd
With horrid imputation.

Leo.
Hush! speak low.
I meant not that! a thing too wild and frightful
Even for a hasty thought.—But does he know
A lurking stranger in the wood was found,
With scared and hasty fear, confessing guilt?

[Mencia, entering behind them, and listening to the last words, rushes forward in grcat alarm.
Men.
Confessing guilt! O trust not his confession!
Believe not what he says! a frenzied dream!
For mercy's sake, my sister! O, for mercy!

Leo.
Mencia; what sudden madness seizes thee?
Mercy! for whom dost thou implore my mercy?

Men.
Cruel thou art to ask! My first, my dearest:
O had no other ever look'd upon me,
This misery had not been.

Leo.
It is Antonio, then, for whom thou fearest?
Is he the stranger who escaped their search?

Men.
Has he escaped? Then heaven be praised he has!

Leo.
And thou didst know that he was lurking here?

Men.
Catch not so eagerly my foolish words;
I think of him when any youth is mention'd.

Diego.
Lady, we only said, “a lurking stranger:”
It is yourself who marks him as a youth.

Men.
I know not what I say;—I'm most unhappy:
I will retire.

Leo.
Yes; thou hadst best retire;
And be appeased; Antonio is not found,
Though now we know on whom to fix the charge. [Exit Mencia.
(Gladly to Diego.)

Now it is clear: it is a blest relief!
My good Diego, faithful, kind, old friend;
Even for the love which thou dost bear thy lord,
I call thee friend;—it is a blest relief.
(Taking his hand.)
It comes upon my heart,—a loaded heart,
That was with horror press'd, and brings these tears.

Diego.
God bless you, lady! Had I sooner known
The steady truth and kindness of your nature,
It had been well, for I have been perverse;
But henceforth I will curb all wayward thoughts,
And honour you as Don Henriquez' wife,
And worthy so to be.

Leo.
Cease, friend; all thy perverseness is forgotten. Enter Carlos.

In a good time thou com'st, my noble friend.

Car.
How's this? Strange joy has lighten'd up your eyes,
Unsuited to these hours of sable sadness.

Leo.
We have discover'd Juan's murderer.

Car.
I'm glad to hear it: have you certain proof?

Leo.
Antonio, Mencia's lover; a wild youth,
Whose most presumptuous love, not long ago,
She had for Juan's nobler suit rejected,
Is the mysterious stranger, here, by night,
Found lurking in the wood, whose hasty flight
So well betrayed his guilt.

Car.
I will, and instantly,
Despatch a swift pursuit, to trace his flight.
I've seen the youth, and can describe his mien,
And slender, graceful form. O most unlike
One who could do a fell and bloody deed!

Leo.
A gentle form the fellest heart may shroud.

Diego.
I have known such to anger and to blood
More prone than sterner men.

Car.
You seem offended with me, but I meant not
To question what you say. The time is precious:
I'll send, without delay, on every track,
Those who, I trust, will shortly seize upon him.
Guilty or innocent. I came to say
Those maids and holy men, as you appointed,
Are in the chapel met, and wait your presence,
To sing a nightly requiem for the dead,
Who, in the vault beneath, his first still night
Of the grave's rest doth pass.
But we'll postpone these rites till we have done
What must not be delayed.

Leo.
Ay; let us lose no time.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The burying vault of the castle, with monuments of the dead; and near the front of the stage, a newly covered grave, seen by the light of a lamp placed on a neighbouring tomb, the stage being otherwise dark. A solemn requiem for the dead is heard at a distance, sounding from above. As it draws to a close, Henriquez appears at the further end of the vault with a light in his hand, which he holds out from him, as if in search of some object, and, seeing the grave, casts the light from his hand, and rushes towards it
Hen.
(after gazing some time on the grave).
And here thou liest with all thy noble parts,
Thy lofty, liberal soul, and goodly form,
And heart of love so thorough and so true!
This is thy rest, the meed and recompense
Thy generous worth hath from thy friend received!
Thy friend! O savage heart and cruel hand!
Fell, hateful, faithless, cowardly, and base!
Of every baleful thing, by heaven cast off,
Most cursed and miserable!—
O that ere this the dust had cover'd me
Like a crush'd snake, whose sting is yet unsheath'd!
Would in the bloody trench some sabred Moor
Had lanced this hold of life—this latent seat
Of cruelty! or rather that some dart,
Shot erring in our days of boyish sport,
Had pierced its core! Then by my early grave
He had shed over me a brother's tears;
He had sate there and wept and mourn'd for me,
When from all human hearts but his alone
All thoughts of me had been extinguished. Juan!
My Juan, dear, dear friend! Juan de Torva!
Thy name is on my lips, as it was wont;
Thine image in my heart like stirring life;
Thy form upon my fancy like that form
Which bless'd my happy days. How he would look,
When with his outspread arms, as he return'd
After some absence!—Oh, it tortures me!
Let any image cross my mind but this!
No, no! not this!—Sable, sepulchral gloom!
Embody to my sight some terrible thing,
And I will brave it.
(Pausing and looking round.)
It doth! it doth! there's form and motion in it.
Advance, thou awful shade, whate'er thou art!
Those threat'ning gestures say thou art not Juan.
[Rubbing his eyes.
It was but fancy.—No; the soul to Him
Who is the Soul of souls ascended hath,
Dust to its dust return'd. There is nought here
But silent rest that can be rous'd no more.
Beneath this mould, some few spans deep he lies.
So near me, though conceal'd!—Curs'd as I am,
The cords of love e'en through this earth have power,
Like a strong charm, to draw me to him still.
[Casting himself upon the grave.
Burst, guilty heart! rend every nerve of life,
And be resolved to senseless clay like this,
So to enlap his dearer clay for ever.

Enter Carlos.
Car.
(looking round him).
He is not here: nought see I through the gloom
Save the cold marble of those tombs which, touch'd
With the wan light of yon sepulchral lamp,
Show their scroll'd ends to the uncertain sight,
Like shrouded bodies rising from the earth.
[Going towards the grave.
Ha! something stirring on the new raised earth!
It is Henriquez, wrapped in frantic sorrow.
[Advancing to him.
Henriquez! hearst thou not, noble Henriquez?
Nay, nay! rise from the earth: such frantic grief
Doth not become a man, and least of all
A man whose firm endurance of misfortune
Has hitherto so graced his noble worth.
Giv'st thou no answer but these heavy groans?
Thou canst not from the tomb recall the dead,
But rouse thy spirit to revenge his death.

Hen.
(raising his head).
What saidst thou?

Car.
Quit this dismal bed of death,
And rouse thee to revenge thy murder'd friend.

Hen.
He is revenged; heav'n deals with guilt so monstrous:
The hand of man is nothing.

Car.
Ay, but the hand of man shall add its mite.
[Taking hold of his hand to raise him.
Up from the earth! I've found the murderer.

Hen.
(springing up fiercely, and seizing him by the throat).
Layst thou thy hand on me?
What is or is not,
The God of heaven doth know, and He alone.
Darest thou with mortal breath bestow that name,
To the dishonour of a noble house,
On one of ancient princely lineage born?

Car.
Let go thy frenzied grasp! Should brave Castilians
Thus grapple hand to hand, like angry boys?
Fit time and place shall justify my words,
If they indeed offend.—Our watch hath seiz'd
In hiding near the castle, most suspiciously,
A youth who hath to Mencia's love pretended,
Whose hand, we cannot doubt, hath done the deed;
But if he be of such high lineage born,
'Tis more than he hath claim'd or we will credit.
Why drop your arms thus listless by your side;
Your eyes upon the ground? Will you not go
And see the prisoner, and hear him question'd?

Hen.
Ay, ay, this is required: I'll go with thee;
I comprehend thee now.

Car.
And yet thou mov'st not:
Does any sudden pain arrest thy steps?

Hen.
I am benumb'd and faint.—I'll follow thee.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A prison in the castle. Antonio discovered disconsolate near the front of the stage. A high door at the bottom, with stairs from it, leading down into the prison.
Ant.
(after shifting his posture several times, and sighing heavily, raises his eyes on hearing the door open gently).
Another visit! do they vainly think,
By oft-repeated questions, to betray
A spent, enfeebled mind into confession?
It is a woman! it is Mencia's self!

Enter Mencia, descending the steps into the prison.
Men.
This is no time for words like these. I dread
E'en but to look upon thee, wretched man!
Take this disguise; it will ensure escape.
There is a faithful friend who waits without,
And by the postern will direct thy flight.
Speak not, but throw these weeds about thee quickly;
The time is precious.

[Holding out garments which she bears over her arm.
Ant.
Thou dreadst to look upon me, yet thou comest
To save my life—to save a murderer's life?

Men.
I said not so in pity of thy state;
That bloody deed I know hath been the act
Of frenzied passion: in some foreign land
Live and repent: Heaven grant thee grace for this!
Let not man's hand, the brand of public shame,
Be on thy wretched head!

Ant.
The hand of man, the brand of public shame,
Falls on the guilty head, by heaven's appointment.
Thou riskest the salvation of thy soul
In aiding my escape; and for my life,
If of thy love bereft, I care not whether
The headsman's axe, or the slow hand of nature,
Shall rid me of it. Nay; the first were best.

Men.
O no! upon my knees I do conjure thee.
[Attempting to kneel, but prevented by him.
If I offend in this, heav'n will forgive me:
For, oh! if thou art lost, I am most wretched.
My misery or peace hangs on thy life;
Therefore, upon my bended knees, I beg.
[Sinking from his hold to the ground.
'Tis for myself I plead; fly instantly.

Ant.
(raising her).
Ah dear, dear Mencia! And car'st thou thus,
For a foul criminal,—a man of blood?
What, then, had been thy care—may I not say—
What, then, had been thy love—had he been innocent?

Men.
Alas, alas! hadst thou been innocent,
I had defied the world, with all its lures,
Again to sever us. Yet, as thou art—

Ant.
Misfortune, thanks! Thou hast done more for me
Than the devoted care of many years.
Come, then, defy the world to sever us,
My generous Mencia; I am innocent.

Men.
Ha! dost thou say it? Saidst thou innocent?
And sayst thou truly so? Hast thou not done it?
Is it no mockery of joy? O no!
That look, that smile! Yes, thou art innocent;
And, heaven be praised, thou art!

Ant.
I am, indeed, of Juan's death most innocent.
And though some circumstances do at present
Accuse me strongly, yet, I trust in heaven,
That on my trial so it will appear.

Men.
Nay; do not trust. O no! for Don Henriquez,
Made savage by despair, will have a victim,
And catch with eagerness at every proof,
How slight soe'er it be. Fly; quickly fly,
And I will follow thee and share thy fortune
Or be it good or ill.

Ant.
O blessed words! my dear, my gen'rous love!
My heart throbs at the thought, but cannot thank thee.
And thou wilt follow me and share my fortune,
Or good or ill!
Ah! what of good can with a skulking outlaw
In his far wand'rings, or his secret haunts,
E'er be? O no! thou shalt not follow me.

Men.
Good may be found for faithful, virtuous love,
In every spot; and for the wand'ring outlaw,
The very sweetest nooks o' the earth are his.
And be his passing home the goatherd's shed,
The woodman's branchy hut, or fisher's cove,
Whose pebbly threshold by the rippling tide
Is softly washed, he may contented live,
Ay, thankfully; fed like the fowls of heaven
With daily food sent by a Father's hand.

Ant.
(pressing both her hands to his heart, and then kissing them).
Thanks, gentle, virtuous Mencia; but, alas!
Far different is the hapless outlaw's home
From what thy gentle fancy fashioneth.
With lawless men he must protection find.
Some murky cavern where the light of day
Hath never peer'd—where the pitch'd brand, instead,
Sheds its red glare on the wild revelry
Of fierce banditti; or the pirate's bark,
Where stalks the sabred ruffian o'er the deck,
Watching his distant prey—some home-bound ship,
With all its stores and freight of precious souls,
Who ne'er shall greet their native shores again,
Must be his guilty home.

Men.
Alas, alas!

Ant.
Thou shalt not follow me, nor will I fly.
Sever'd from thee I will not live, sweet love,
Nor shalt thou be the mate of one disgraced,
And by the good disown'd. Here I'll remain,
And heav'n will work for me a fair deliv'rance.

Men.
No, no! the present means for thy escape
Are sent to thee by heav'n. Be not so stubborn!
With or without me fly, even as thou wilt,
But do not linger here.
[Looking to the door on hearing it moce.
The door—O misery! we are surprised.
It is Henriquez; Heaven have pity on us!

Enter Henriquez, while Mencia shrinks behind Antonio.
Hen.
(advancing).
Ha! not alone! Who is it? Wretched Mencia!

Men.
(rushing forward).
Oh he is innocent! Have pity on us!
Turn not away from me, noble Henriquez.
[Catching hold of him eagerly.
Heaven knows that he is innocent.

Hen.
Then, pray thee, be at peace; heav'n will protect him.

Men.
Frown not; my wretchedness has made me bold.

Hen.
Away, away! I do not frown on thee.
Thou art the baleful cause of all this misery,
And yet I blame thee not. Away, and leave us!

Ant.
Retire, dear Mencia; to thy chamber go;
It is not fit that thou shouldst tarry here.

[She retires unwillingly; Henriquez waving his hand to quicken her retreat, and waiting in gloomy silence till she is gone.
Hen.
Unhappy youth; thou hast to thine accusers
Thine innocence asserted with the earnest
And simple manliness of truth; yet truth,
Supported only by the word of him
Who is accused, will nought avail. How is it?
If there be any circumstance that may
Support or prove thy words, I do entreat thee
To tell me freely, and I will, with speed,
Use every means that may unfold it fully
To aid thy exculpation. (Pauses.)
Is there none?
Bethink thee well: how slight soe'er it be,
It may to others lead of more import.

Ant.
Thanks, generous man!

Hen.
Nay, nay! What is thine answer?

Ant.
Alas! four days within that fatal wood
I have been hid; unseen of every one
But Mencia, and those hinds who did pursue me.
What circumstance can then avail me? No;
Heaven, in its justice, will unfold the truth;
In this I put my trust; proofs I have none.

Hen.
Take the deliv'rance, then, which heaven has sent thee.
Fly, save thy life. (Offering a purse.)
This will procure the means,
When thou hast clear'd the precincts of the forest.
All now is still, and favours thy escape.

Ant.
My lord, like one stunn'd with astonishment,
I thank your gen'rous care. But, Don Henriquez,
Though born of blood less noble than your own,
An outlaw's fate, from friends and country banish'd,
My honest fame blurr'd with imputed guilt,
Is not deliv'rance such as I accept,
Such as a true Castilian can accept.
You offer it in pity of my youth,
Therefore I thank you; but I'll here abide
Such vindication as becomes mine honour.

Hen.
But should it fail thee, canst thou better brook
A malefactor's death, the public gaze,
The scaffold's open shame, the executioner,
All the degrading ministry of death;
Even that which so attainteth noble blood
That ages wear not out th' abhorred blot,
Disgracing all thy line? Ay, think of this:
It makes me shudder as I utter it,
Who have in battle faced all dreadful things.

Ant.
In truth, it makes your strengthen'd features wear
A ghastly hue of horror. How is this,
That such strong sympathy should move you so?
You think me guiltless in the very front
Of proof that should condemn me: then, belike,
Some shrewd suspicion of the actual hand
That did th' accursed deed lurks in your mind.

Hen.
Ha! Cast an accusation on mine honour!

Ant.
No, Don Henriquez; with a friendly wish
To do me service cam'st thou here, and sacred
Is all that thou in privacy hast done
Or utter'd. Yea; though thou shouldst now confess
That thou thyself wert Juan's murderer
(Start not, these are but words of argument);
Yea, e'en supposing this, and that my rescue
From the uplifted axe depended on it,
Yet would I not betray thee.

Hen.
(turning away haughtily).
Thou art incorrigible: take thy will.
[Returning and laying down a key.
I leave thee this; thou wilt consider of it.
Say, is there aught that thou wouldst have me do?

Ant.
Send me a priest. Though only such transgressions
As youthful folly prompts rest on my mind,
Yet would my soul, shrived by some holy man,
His ghostly counsel take, and be at peace.

Hen.
And be at peace! Ay, ghostly counsel may
To such as thou give peace. O could it also—
I know an aged friar, wise and prudent:
Thou shalt be satisfied.

[Exit.
Ant.
(after following him with his eye as he ascends the stair at the bottom of the stage).
But that it were so horrid and unnatural,
A thing at strife with all consistent thoughts,
I could believe—No; 'tis impossible.

[Retires to the bottom of the stage, and the scene closes.

SCENE II.

An antechamber.
Enter Carlos and Friar by opposite sides.
Car.
Good morning, father! you are early here.
Whom come you to confess?

Friar.
I have already been with the poor prisoner.

Car.
And thou hast heard, no doubt, the horrid truth
Which he denies to every one besides?

Friar.
I've heard all he confesses.

Car.
Ay; what strange tales, what secret horrid things,
In thy long course of ghostly ministry,
Have in thine ear been pour'd! By this good hand,
But that I did prefer the jointed mail
And weapon's stroke to haircloth and the scourge,
The roar of battle to the chaunting choir,
I had become a friar, to learn, like thee,
All those dark mysteries of human nature,
To which thy mind is conscious.

Friar.
Gentle son!
Pardon my words; thou talkst in ignorance.
A tale of guilt, wrung from the sinner's soul,
Strikes not the fancy like a winter's tale
Of moonlight witchery, or murder done
I' th' secret chamber. No; a counter sympathy
Doth quell the fancy then. Thou speakst in ignorance.

Car.
True, father, this may be. With your permission
I will attend you to the gate.

Friar.
Not now.
I'm summon'd: Don Henriquez waits for me.

Car.
At the confessional?

Friar.
So I believe; I meet him in the chapel.

Car.
I am right glad of this. We marvell'd much
He did not sooner think of ghostly comfort.

Friar.
I have been summon'd by him once before;
But when I came, capricious in his sorrow,
He would not see me.

Car.
Speak comfort to him, and enjoin some penance
For the indulgence of such frantic grief;
So wayward, so excessive. May God bless thee!
[Exit friar.
Here comes our keen and fiery secretary.

Enter Balthazar.
Bal.
Ay; every cot and castle in the realm
At my command must open gate and hold,
Chamber and bower; e'en the sepulchral vault,
Whose sable scutcheon'd door hath not for years
Upon its hinges jarr'd, must be unlock'd,
And show its secrets to the searching light.
But as I learn you have secured the murderer,
I am content; here ends my brief commission.
I pray you lead me to the prison-house:
I burn to see the wretch.

Car.
Come, follow me

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A chapel. Henriquez discorered on his knees by the confessional, the Friar bending over him, and muttering words in a low voice.
Friar
(aloud).
Rise, son, in humble but assured faith!
Repentance, and these penances endured,
Will gain from heavenly grance full absolution
Of this most guilty deed—of all thy sins.
Rise, and be comforted!
[Raising him, and leading him forward.
Be comforted!
The worst of sinners league not with despair,
But by their own untoward disbelief,
The greatest sin of all. Thou smit'st thy breast,
And shak'st thy drooping head: thou must not doubt.
All sin is finite, mercy infinite;
Why shouldst thou doubt that God will pardon thee?

Hen.
I doubt it not. God's mercy pardons all
Who truly do repent; and O how truly,
How deeply, how intensely I repent!
But in my breast there is a goading sense,
An inward agony, a power repelling
In dire abhorrence every better thought.
The bliss of heaven for me! incongruous hope!
My soul, my fancy, yea my very will
Is link'd to misery; and happiness
Comes to my thoughts like gleams of painful day
To owls and bats, and things obscene and hateful,
Fitted by nature for their dismal dens.
O that I were like such! in the reft rock
Of some dank mine coil'd up, dull and unconscious
Of the loud hammer's sound, whose coming stroke
Should crush me from existence!

Friar.
Alas, alas, my son, have better thoughts.

Hen.
Let them arise in better hearts, for mine
A nest of stinged scorpions hath become,
And only fit for such. Each recollection,
Each waking fancy, like a barbed fang,
Pierces its core with thrilling agony,
Which yields to a succeeding, sharper sting,
And that again to others keener still.
So kind, so dear, such manly, true affection!
Friendship so pure! such noble confidence!
Love that surmounted all things! When, in passion,
I did an outrage on his fiery blood,
What would have hurl'd on any other head
The instant stroke of death—he only waited—

Friar.
Give o'er, my son; thou art too vehement.

Hen.
He waited till my senseless rage was spent,
Then smil'd—O such a sweet, upbraiding smile!
Open'd his arms, and clasp'd me to his heart.
That smile, those open'd arms, I see them now,—
I see them constantly; where'er I turn,
They front me like a vision of delight
Changed to a gorgon terror.
Yet no restraining love did plead for him:
As though he had some common rev'ller been,
All base suggestions were received against him,
Were cherish'd, brooded on by dint of thought,
Work'd to a semblance of consistent truth,
Which, but for this, hateful ingratitude,
All other crimes surpassing, ne'er had found
Credence so wild. Iron heart and ruffian hand!
Ye took your cursed will, and slew the noblest,
The bravest, and the best, like a vile traitor!

[Beating his forchead and striding away.
Friar.
My son, this is wild ecstasy of passion,
Which leads not to that humble true repentance
Our holy church enjoins.

Hen.
(returning).
Or had I met him as an open foe,
With accusation of defiance fairly
Preceding vengeance; but unheard, i' th' dark!
Tremble, ye venerable roofs, ye towers
Of my brave fathers, men without reproach;
Fall on my cursed head, and grind to dust
What bears the honour'd semblance of their son,
Although unmeet to bear the human form.

Friar.
Nay, nay! I pray forbear; this violent grief
For thy soul's weal is most unprofitable.
Betake thyself betimes to prayer and penance.
The sufferings of the body will relieve
The suff'rings of the mind.

Hen.
The sufferings of the body! They are powerless.
[Showing his hand.
See here, short while, in agony of thought,
Pacing the armoury where hangs the mail
Which Juan wore, when in Tolosa's field
We fought the turban'd Moslems side by side;
It was his gift, which I did beg of him,
In the proud joy I felt at his high deeds.
How swell'd my heart! A braver knight in arms
Fought not that day. Bold heart and potent hand,
And lofty mien and eyes that flash'd with valour!
Where run my words? I have forgot their drift.

Friar.
Something which happen'd in the armoury.

Hen.
Ay, in the armoury, as I have said,
I struck my hand, in vehemence of action,
On a spik'd shield, nor knew till afterwards,
When the wild fit was past, and oozing blood
Loaded my clammy touch, that in my flesh
The broken iron was sheath'd.
No; what can corporeal pain or penance do?
That which inflicts the mental wound, which rends
The hold of pride, wrenching the bent of nature;
'Tis that alone hath power. Yet from the effort
Nature starts back; my mind, stunn'd at the thought,
Loses the use of thought.

Friar.
I do not understand you, good my lord.

Hen.
It matters not; you will, perhaps, hereafter.

Friar.
You are at present feeble and exhausted,
And lack repose; retire awhile, my son.
Hark! on the walls without, do you not hear
The warder's call to note the rising morn?

Hen.
The morn! And what have I to do with morn?
The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir
Of tented sleepers rousing to the call,
The snorting steed, in harness newly dight,
Did please my fancy once. Ay; and the sweetness
Of my still native woods, when, through the mist,
They show'd at early dawn their stately oaks,
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully.
These pleased me once in better days; but now
My very soul within me is abhorrent
Of every pleasant thing; and that which cheers
The stirring soldier or the waking hind,
That which the traveller blesses, and the child
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door
Of his pent cot he issues to the air,
Does but increase my misery.—
I loathe the light of heaven: let the night,
The hideous unbless'd night, close o'er me now,
And close for ever!

Friar.
Cease, cease! and cherish not such dark despair.
Retire to your apartment, and in prayer
Beseech Almighty Goodness to have pity
On a perturbed soul.

Hen.
Pray thou for me; I will pray when I can.

Friar.
Hark! steps along the corridor; they come
To say an early mass for the repose
Of the interr'd: they must not find you here.

Hen.
And to the dead they give repose! What mass,
What prayers, what chaunted hymns can to the living
Give respite from this agony of soul?
Alas, alas! there is no cure for this.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A small court before the door of the prison, which is open. Blas and other domestics discovered waiting near it.
1 dom.
(to Blas).
Goes Don Henriquez with the prisoner?

Blas.
He does; his noble courser at the gate,
Black Sultan, saddled stands, champing the bit,
And casting from his mouth the flaky foam.
Stand back; they're coming now.

Enter Antonio, Carlos, Friar, Balthazar, and Diego, from the prison.
Friar
(to Antonio).
Be not cast down, my son, but trust in heaven!

Ant.
And so I do; that is my stay, good father;
And yet, methinks, these fetters might be spared.
By Don Henriquez' orders am I thus
Like a vile felon chain'd?

Car.
'Tis by his orders; 'tis a stated form.
I fear they gall you; are they clench'd too tightly?

Bal.
Who doth a felon's deeds must e'en submit
To bear a felon's manacles.

Ant.
(to Baltiiazar).
Yes; man of pens, and records, and old lore,
Such is thy narrow and ungen'rous nature.
[Turning to Carlos.
This rough but noble soldier, bred in camps
And midst the broil of battle, is more gentle.
Henriquez seem'd inclined to pity me,
To think me innocent; then, wherefore these?

Car.
Come, we lose time, we must begin our journey
To reach the town by close of day, Henriquez
Being intent to gain a royal audience
Before the sitting of to-morrow's court.

[Exeunt all but Diego, to whom enters Leonora, with something in her hand.
Leo.
My good Diego, hie thee to the gate;
And ere thy master mount, give him this scarf,
These gloves too, and his signet, which, in haste,
He left behind.
[Giving them to him.
He has forbidden me to follow him,
And he must be obeyed.

Diego.
He shall receive them.

Leo.
How look'd Antonio when they led him forth?
Greatly dejected?

Diego.
No; he bears it stoutly.

Leo.
Asserting still that he is innocent?

Diego.
Ay, ay; but every villain does the same.
Does not my lord believe that he is guilty?

Leo.
I cannot doubt it. When he left the chapel
A long time in his chamber he remain'd;
When he came forth again, I watch'd his eye,
And it was calm, though gloomy. Then forthwith
He gave his orders that a band of spearmen
Should be in readiness to guard the prisoner
Bound to Zamora; and were he in doubt,
He were not now so calm, being before
So greatly agitated. Hie thee quickly.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The court at Zamora, a grand hall of audience. Nobles, prelates, officers, &c. discovered in waiting; a flourish of trumpets. Enter the King and his train, who walks slowly, as he receives their homage, to a chair of state near the front of the stage.
1 noble
(presenting a petition).
May't please your highness, look on this petition,
Humbly presented to your royal notice
By one of noble blood.

King.
And noble conduct, too, I hope, Don Pedro.
What is its plea?
[After reading the paper slightly.
That he beneath a lady's window hath
A most audacious suitor slain, who there
Did charm her ear with love-sick ditties.—Slew him!
A harsh device to win the lady's favour;
Had she not ears to be again enthrall'd?
Another song had been a fitter weapon
Of opposition than a sword, methinks.
[Giving the paper to a secretary.
Note down that I will look on this again.

2d noble
(giving a paper).
Deign, royal sir, to look upon this paper.

King.
Freely, Don Blas; from such a noble hand
It needs must be an honourable suit.
[Reading the paper.
Don Julian, of the noble house of Guzman,
Hath, by the cadet of a meaner house,
Been elbow'd from his place, who most nefariously
Refused to yield to him the dexter side.
[Reading on more slightly.
Honour repair'd—that he be forced—a blow!
[Shaking his head.
We are too learned in this ancient kingdom.
Nay, reverend prelate, no offence to you;
The clergy stand acquitted of this charge.

Prelate.
I know not how to comprehend your highness.

King.
We should be spared full many a deadly broil,
Did we not know our right hand from our left.
We are in this, good sooth! too nicely learn'd,
Which doth but scantily, in my opinion,
Supply the want of every other lore.

2d noble
(aside to 1st).
Never may I again i' th' royal presence
Wear hat and plume, if this is not derision.

1 noble
(aside).
'Tis Don Henriquez we may thank for this.
He spoke not to us thus when the arm'd Moor
Was nearer to his doors.

King
(to prelate).
And now, my lord, let me receive your paper.

Prelate.
Most humbly to your highness I present it,
From pious men, whose prayers are offer'd up
For your prosperity.

[Gives the paper.
King
(reading it slightly).
“That the free hinds of Tormes and their wives
Refuse their wonted offerings to the convent,
And therefore humbly—the adjoining lands—
A royal compensation.”—So it runs,
And it must cost me many a fruitful field,
Because those villagers love fatted pullets,
As well as sober, self-denying monks!
This also at our leisure we'll consider.
[Gives the paper to the secretary, and sitting down, receives other petitions, when a confused noise is heard.
What noise is that without?

Enter an Officer.
Offi.
May't please you, Don Henriquez waits without.

King.
Henriquez, my brave general? How is this?

Offi.
He comes attended by a goodly train,
Guarding a prisoner, and humbly begs
To be admitted to the royal presence,
Before your court shall sit.

King.
Most willingly: say, I am ready now
To give him audience.
[Exit officer.
I marvel much
How it should be. In this unwonted form
To bring his prisoner!—But here he comes.

Enter Henriquez, followed by Carlos and Antonio, going up to the King, who rises to meet him.
King.
Thou too, my valiant friend, a suitor here?

Hen.
A humble supplicant.

King.
Who needs not sue.
Say freely what thou wouldst, and it is granted.

Hen.
But what I beg, an earnest boon, must be
Confirm'd to me with all solemnity,
Before I utter it.

King.
A strange request!
But that thy services have been to me
Beyond all recompense, and that I know
Thy country's welfare and thy sovereign's honour
Are dear to thee, as thou full well hast proved,
I should with some precaution give my word.
But be it so; I say thy suit is granted.

Hen.
Nay, swear it on this sword.

King.
Where doth this tend? Doubtst thou my royal word?

Hen.
When honour'd lately by your princely presence,
You gave to me this ring with words of favour;
And said if I should e'er, by fortune press'd,
Return the same to you, whatever grace
I then might ask, should be conceded to me.
[Giving the ring.
Receive your royal token: my request
Is that you swear upon my sword to grant
This boon which I shall beg.

[Holds out his sword to the King, who lays his hand on it.
King.
This sword, this honour'd blade, I know it well,
Which thou in battle from the princely Moor
So valiantly didst win: why should I shrink
From any oath that shall be sworn on this?
I swear, by the firm honour of a soldier,
To grant thy boon, whatever it may be.
Declare it then, Henriquez.
[A pause.
Thou art pale
And silent too: I wait upon thy words.

Hen.
My breath forsook me. 'Tis a passing weakness:
I have power now. There is a criminal,
Whose guilt before your highness in due form
Shall shortly be attested; and my boon
Is, that your highness will not pardon him
However strongly you may be inclined
To royal clemency,—however strongly
Entreated so to do.

King.
This much amazes me. Ever till now,
Thou'st been inclined to mercy, not to blood.

Hen.
Yea; but this criminal, with selfish cruelty,
With black ingratitude, with base disloyalty
To all that sacred is in virtuous ties,
Knitting man's heart to man—What shall I say?
I have no room to breathe.
[Tearing open his doublet with violence.
He had a friend,
Ingenuous, faithful, generous, and noble:
E'en but to look on him had been full warrant
Against th' accusing tongue of man or angel,
To all the world beside,—and yet he slew him.
A friend whose fost'ring love had been the stay,
The guide, the solace of his wayward youth,—
Love steady, tried, unwearied,—yet he slew him.
A friend, who in his best devoted thoughts,
His happiness on earth, his bliss in heaven,
Intwined his image, and could nought devise
Of sep'rate good,—and yet he basely slew him;
Rush'd on him like a ruffian in the dark,
And thrust him forth from life, from light, from nature,
Unwitting, unprepared for th' awful change
Death brings to all. This act so foul, so damned,
This he hath done: therefore upon his head
Let fall the law's unmitigated justice.

King.
And wherefore doubtst thou that from such a man
I will withhold all grace? Were he my brother
I would not pardon him. Produce your criminal.

[Those who have Antonio in custody lead him forward.
Hen.
(motioning with his hand to forbid them).
Undo his shackles; he is innocent.

King.
What meaneth this? Produce your criminal.

Hen.
(kneeling).
My royal master, he is at your feet.

[A cry of astonishment is heard through the hall; the King, staggering back from the spot, is supported by an attendant, while Carlos and Antonio, now free from his fetters, run to Henriquez, who continues kneeling, and bend over him in deep concern.
King
(recovering).
A fearful shock! Mine ears are ringing still.
Rise, Don Henriquez d'Altavera, rise!
(Turning away his head.)
Raise him: O do not let me see him thus!

[Motions the crowd to withdraw, who go off, leaving the King, Henriquez, Carlos, and Antonio only on the stage.
King
(fiercely).
Carlos, on thee my anger rests, who thus
Stoodst by and suffer'dst me to be deceived.

Car.
Condemn me not, my liege; I was myself,
Convinced this youth had done the deed, deceived.
This on a soldier's honour I aver.

King.
Alas, Henriquez! thou hast practised on me
With cruel guile. I would right gladly forfeit
The fairest town thy sword e'er won for me,
And be again at liberty to pardon
Whatever thou hast done: a deed, most surely,
By thy high nature all too rudely charged.
Thou in the frenzy of some headlong passion
Hast acted as a madman, who still wreaks
His direst wrath on those he loves the most.

Hen.
No, no! it was an act of brooding thought,
Of slow intent, of dark consideration.
Our early love, with all his fair endowments
And noble qualities, before my mind
Did clearly pass; pass and return again,
And strongly plead for him, and were rejected.

King.
Go to! thou hast a wild imagination,
Which has o'erreach'd thy judgment.—Set me free.
The public weal requires thy service: oaths
Adverse to this do not, and should not, bind.

Hen.
There are within your kingdom many chiefs
Who may do better service to the state,
Though not with better will than I have done;
[Laying his sword at the King's feet.
Here do I part with ensigns, arms, and war;
Nor soldier's brand, nor baton of command,
This hand accursed shall ever grasp again.
Your highness by the honour of a prince
Stands bound to me in this, and you are bound.

King.
Ay, if it needs must be, determined spirit!
Yet, think again; be it awhile deferr'd,
This dismal trial, for a month—a year.

Hen.
Not for a day.

King.
Thou art too boldly stubborn.
By what authority dost thou oppose it,
If 'tis my pleasure it should be deferr'd?

Hen.
The law's authority emboldens me.
I am Don Juan's heir, and do by right
Demand the speedy trial of his murderer.
Nor think the law's delay would aught avail.
How many secret ways there may be found
To rid a wretch of life, who loathes to live.
My soul demands this sacrifice—pants for it,
As that which can alone restore to it
The grace of heav'n and the respect of men.

Car.
Noble Henriquez, thy too stubborn virtue—

Hen.
Nay, Carlos, hold thy peace. Be not my foe:
He were my greatest enemy who should
Impede this consummation. When 'tis past,
Then let the favour of my princely master,
Of loving camp-mates, and all virtuous men,
Return to me again. A noble treasure
That will redeem my memory from shame.

King
(embracing him).
Living or dead, brave man, thou must be honour'd!
I will no more contend with thy desires.
Some preparation for this solemn ceremony
Thou wilt require; Don Carlos will conduct thee
Where thou mayst rest and find all needful aid.

[Exit.
Hen.
Come, friends, till I am summon'd to my trial:
The time is short, and we must husband it.
[Going and stopping again.
I shun not now thy friendly aid, good Carlos;
My heart is lighten'd of its heavy load,
And I can take a good man by the hand,
And feel we are akin.

Car.
To all that is most great and admirable
Thou art akin. I have no words to speak
The thoughts I have of thee, thou noble man!

Hen.
(to Antonio).
And thou too, gentle youth; give me thy hand.
Thy noble confidence did point to me
The true and honour'd path. For, hadst thou fled,
I might have shrunk aside, and been on earth
A sullen secret thing of wretchedness,
Cursing the light of heaven. Gentle youth,
I've felt the kindly pressure of thy hand,
And all thy gen'rous sympathy: forgive me,
That I did hold thy mind so long in doubt.

Ant.
O nothing did I doubt that thou didst know
My innocence, and would protect it; yet,
This noble, terrible act I ne'er divined.
Would I had fled my prison at thy bidding,
And lived a vagabond upon the earth,
Ere this had been! What was my name or worth?
But thou—

Hen.
Cease, cease! repent it not, sweet youth;
For all the friends on earth would not have done me
Such true and worthy service!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A royal apartment. Enter Leonora and Friar.
Friar.
The king will from his council come ere long;
Then wait, I pray, and take a little respite
From this impatient fever of your mind.

Leo.
Take respite! this impatience! O, good father!
Thou canst not know this agony, and speakst
Like one secured from human misery.
Heaven grant me patience! I have need of it;
But it must come from heaven.

Friar.
See; now his highness enters.

Enter King attended; and Leonora, running to him, casts herself at his feet, embracing his knees.
King.
The lady Leonora! rise, dear lady.

Leo.
No; to your knees I'll cling, nor quit my hold
Till from your royal pity I obtain
The mercy I implore.—My lord Henriquez—
Your valiant general—my dear, dear husband—
Say that he shall not die. This execution!
This malefactor's end! O save him! save him!

King
(raising her).
As far as I have power, your suit is granted.

Leo.
Then he is saved—he lives? Is it not so?

King.
Alas! I would it were. Your lord refuses
All royal mercy. I have sworn to him
Never to pardon Juan's murderer.
If thou canst move his stubborn spirit, kneel,
And at his feet implore him to release me
From this most fatal oath.

Leo.
Move him! Alas, alas! this will not be;
I know him well: in what he deems the right,
He is inflexible. But solemn oaths,
E'en oaths upon the holy relics sworn,
The holy church annuls: it will release you.
Then say not you are bound.

King.
From oaths upon the holy relics sworn
The church can loose, as thou, no doubt, hast learnt
From sacred books and this good father's lore;
But, solemnly, upon Henriquez' sword
I've pledged a prince's word—a soldier's honour,
From which nought can release me, but the will
And free consent of him to whom 'tis pledged.
Hie, therefore, to thy lord: kneel at his feet,
And may heav'n give thee power to touch his heart.

Leo.
Is all my hope in this! Unhappy woman!
By heaven and man abandon'd—Dismal doom!
The woe of desperation!
[Franticly wringing her hands, and then turning in anger to the King.
There's mockery in this. Thou art a king,
And canst command what I would beg in vain;
Command him, as his royal liege and master,
That he release thee from this fatal pledge.
A king, and not obey'd! deceitful shadow!
Doth not thy power o'er all things reign supreme?

King.
Not o'er men's wills.—
This is a power heaven to itself retains,
And ne'er did delegate to mortal being.

Leo.
(pacing about as before).
Despair, despair!
What see I but despair,
Shame, infamy, a malefactor's end?

King.
Wring not thy hands so wildly, wretched lady!
His life, indeed, we must despair to save;
But infamy is from his name remov'd,
As heaven from hell. Yea, his proud house shall boast
Of this its noble malefactor, more
Than all its trophied chiefs.
When at the bar he stood arraign'd, and pled,
Proving his secret guilt, against himself,
Ne'er rose his form so nobly on the mind,
Even in his days of triumph.—
But when the fatal sentence was pronounced,
He raised his head, and sent a look to heav'n
Of pleased appeal and solemn thankfulness;
A look of pious hope so dignified,
He seem'd like some fall'n seraph that again
Had won his way to bliss.—A general murmur
Of admiration from deep silence rose.
Old men did clasp their hands, and young men wept;
And those who on his victories bestow'd
A cold and niggard praise, now, with full hearts,
Gave boundless tribute to his lofty virtue.

Leo.
And he was honour'd thus! high heaven be prais'd!
[Bursting into tears.
It makes me weep that they did weep for him.
Heaven's will be done!
I've been too stern and violent in my grief:
God grant me more submission to His will,
And I will learn to bear it. My Henriquez!
The brave with tears of admiration grace
Thy hapless end, and rescue thee from shame.

King.
Rescue! far more than rescue: his proud house
The very implements of execution
Will henceforth in their banners proudly weave.

Leo.
I needs must weep; but let my tears have vent,
And I shall be resign'd.

Enter Carlos and Antonio.
King
(to them).
How is Henriquez? came ye from his tower?

Car.
Most admirably well; his soul is up:
I left him shaking hands most cordially
With his worst enemy, and he intends,
Ere close the night's first watch, to spend an hour
In social converse with some early friends,
Who shared his first campaigns, and have desired
To see his face once more.—
His soul seems open'd now, and raised above
That close reserve, which was his greatest blemish.

King.
Some noble minds do from misfortune rise,
Yea, e'en from guilt, more noble than before;
As by the hardest blow the smitten ball
Bounds highest from the earth.—
Retire, fair Leonora: this good man
(pointing to friar)
Will heavenly comfort to thy soul impart,
And strengthen it to bear the coming trial.

[Friar supports her on one side, while Antonio offers his aid also, as she goes off.
Leo.
(to Ant.)
Not thou; the hidden cause of all this woe.

Friar.
Nay, daughter, be not angry with this youth.
The will of heaven must be; the means appointed
Must also be: he is most innocent,
Since ignorant of ill.

Leo.
My grief is wayward still; but I'll subdue it.

[Takes hold of Antonio, and exit with him and friar, while King, Carlos, and attendants go out by another door.

SCENE III.

Before the gate of the prison; the stage dark, excepting a lamp hung over the gate; sentinels discovered on watch.
Enter Balthazar with a dark lantern.
1st sen.
Stand! who art thou?

Bal.
A friend, connected with the noble prisoner.

Sen.
Stand there aloof; thou mayst not enter yet.

Enter Friar by the opposite side.
1st sen.
Ho there!

Friar.
A friend.

2d sen.
A friend! What seekst thou here?

Friar.
I am a priest, confessor to Henriquez.

1st sen.
Thou shalt have entrance presently.

Friar.
I thank thee.
[Going up close to Bal.
Thou art Balthazar?

Bal.
And thy servant, father.

Friar.
Thou'rt up betimes; it is still pitchy night.

Bal.
Nay; look thou eastward; you dull line of light,
Bounding the sable darkness of the earth
From the sky's fainter gloom: it is the dawn.

Friar.
Ha! runs the time so fast! what noise is that?

Bal.
The hum of distant voices, and the sound
Of preparation for the awful morn.
As I now pass'd along, in every street
I heard the eager citizens astir,
While light from many a lattice gleam'd. And onward,
As I approach'd th' appointed place, I saw
Round the fenced spot, already gather'd, groups
Of men and women, young and old, whose faces
Did seem, from darkness, as from nothing sprung,
Touch'd with the torches' glaring light, which downward
Stream'd from the lofty scaffold, whereon forms
Of busy artists at their fatal work,
And ghastly headsmen moving to and fro,
Appear'd like blacken'd fiends. Dost thou not hear
The stroke of hammers, and that sounding plank?
There comes a strange and thrilling coldness o'er me.
[A pause and noise without.
I little thought to feel such ruth for him,
The man who slew my good and noble master.

Friar.
Why shouldst thou not? the feeling does thee honour;
And he doth for that rash and rueful deed
Make dear and great amends. The gate is open'd.

[Exeunt into the prison.

SCENE IV.

A passage way in the prison. Enter Friar and Gaoler, speaking as they enter.
Gaoler.
But it is past the hour; he must be waked.

Friar.
Waked! dost thou think he sleeps?

Gaoler.
Yes, father; he hath slept, I guess, since midnight.

Friar.
How knowst thou this?

Gaoler.
I've listen'd at his door
From time to time, and nought have heard within
But a deep silence, once or twice brok'n faintly
By slow-heaved breathings, as of heavy sleep.

Friar.
So sound asleep, and such a morn to wake to!

Gaoler.
Nay, they who sleep before their day of doom
Sleep often thus,—a deathlike, dreamless sleep.
[Speaking as he goes off.
I well remember one, who, on the morn—

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The prison chamber. Henriquez discovered asleep on a couch, near the front of the stage.
Enter Friar and Gaoler.
Friar.
Still fast asleep: it grieves my soul to wake him.
No trace of trouble on his face! He lies
Like a tired hunter after toilsome chase.
Call to him, friend, I cannot.

Gaoler.
Ho! Don Henriquez! ho, my lord! awake!
Awake, my lord!—He is in heavy sleep,
Like the dull rest of death, which hath no ear.

Friar.
Oh that it were indeed the rest of death!
It is a woeful service to awake him.
How goes the time? Might he still sleep awhile?

Gaoler.
'Tis past the hour at which he charged me strictly
To call him up.

Friar.
Then he must be obey'd.

Gaoler
(touching him gently).
Wake! Don Henriquez, wake! It is the hour.
He moves him now: the sound is in his ears;
The light annoys his eyes. Awake, my lord!

[Touching him again.
Hen.
(raising his head).
What is it?

Gaoler.
'Tis the hour the morning breaks.

Hen.
(starting from his couch).
Bring me my armour: have ye roused the camp?
Bid every soldier dight him for the field:
I've slept too long.

Gaoler.
It is the very hour
At which you did give orders to be waked.

Hen.
Ha! Yes, I understand thee: it is morn,—
The fated morn that brings to me no noon.
Sleep from the tablet of my brain had razed
All present things, and in my waking fancy
Had led me back to what I was so lately.
I thank you. Dawns the light?

Friar and Gaoler
(both at once).
The morning breaks.

Hen.
Your voices sound like midnight, not like morn.
Welcome, good father; thou art come, in truth,
To wake me for the fight, and brace my strength,
Not with corporeal arms.

Friar.
No, good my lord;
A nobler armour, for a nobler warfare:
And the Almighty King, whose valiant soldier
Thou wilt this day approve thyself to be,
Will gird thee for the field. Receive from him
His high commission, worthy of a man.

Hen.
(looking upward, and then kneeling with his arms on his breast, and his head bowed to the ground).
I do receive it, father, most devoutly.
[Rising with solemnity.
Let me be forward in my work, good father.
I would retire, and give my thoughts to heaven
Ere earthly things shall press to mingle with them.
Come, then, and join thy fervent prayers with mine,
And teach my dying voice to sue for mercy.

[Exit with friar.
Gaoler
(looking after Henriquez).
The right true metal this; 'twill bear the furnace.
Ah! who would once have thought that from my custody
He should pass forth to such a death? Heaven doom'd it.
[Noise and bustle without.
What noise is that without?—Ho! who would enter?

Voice
(without).
Open; it is the king.

[Gaoler opens the door, and enter the King, Carlos, Antonio, and Balthazar.
King
(to gaoler).
Where is thy noble charge?

Gaoler.
With his confessor, in the private chapel.

King.
How is he, gaoler? Has he through the night
Had any rest?

Gaoler.
Yes, may it please your highness,
He hath slept soundly.

King.
Sound sleep in such a state! Yet, wherefore marvel:
He has been used to look death i' the face.

Car.
Ay, in the field; but many brave him there,
Who on a scaffold feel their manhood quail.

King.
Is it so, gaoler? Thou hast good experience.

Gaoler.
Some years ago, two brothers suffer'd here,
For an offence of state; the one a soldier,
Stout, brave, and bold in war; the other bred
To quiet life at home; but on the scaffold
The man of peace did bear the loftier brow,
And beat the hardy vet'ran shamefully.

King.
Strange creatures are we all! and who is known
Until his trial comes?—I think, good Carlos
Thou toldst me he conversed with cheerfulness
Till a late hour last night.

Car.
Yes, good my liege,
Having first settled all his worldly cares,
Like one, who, from a heavy load released,
Unclasps his vest to recreate himself,
He with two ancient camp-mates and your liegeman
Convers'd with kindlier, more enliven'd freedom
Than he was wont: spoke of their old adventures,
Prais'd many a valiant heart, fall'n in the field,
And of the fate of others did inquire
With kindly interest, as though his soul
Upon the very parting verge of nature
Felt nature's sympathies more warmly. Truly
His spirit seem'd already to have doff'd
Its earthly coat, and gain'd a purer being.

King.
Ay; he is passing to a higher state:
So teach our holy men, and I believe them.
Doth aught approaching to a final end
Of dark extinction rise to meet it thus?
It doth not;—no, it cannot.
But first he settled all his worldly cares.
And what are his bequests?

Car.
Balthazar, thou canst tell.

Bal.
He first of all provides a noble monument
To Juan's mem'ry near his native town,
Desiring he himself may be interr'd
In the same vault with him, and by his side.
For many friends, and all his ancient servants,
Forgetting none, he hath made kind provision.
His lady's dowry is enlarg'd, and Mencia
Receives a noble portion to bestow
Upon her early lover, this good youth,
Whom he hath named with words of special love.

King
(to Antonio, who turns aside to weep.)
Weep freely, gentle youth; whom he hath loved
Shall ever in his prince's favour hold
An honourable place.—Pray thee, proceed.

Bal.
He hath, besides, for good and pious ends,
A large benevolence—

Car.
Hush! he approaches.

Re-enter Henriquez and Friar.
King
(advancing to meet him).
My noble friend, I felt a strong desire
Once more—a short intrusion.

Hen.
Say not so.
Your grace is come to wish me a good morrow,
And cheer me on this outset of my way.

King.
Alas! a dismal cheer, a woful morrow!

Hen.
Nay, three successive days have dawn'd upon me
Through such a gloom of hopeless misery,
That this, comparatively, seems indeed
A morn of cheer. Then so consider it.
And now, in parting, I would beg of you
To pardon whatsoe'er, in my long service,
I've done, in ignorance or stubborn will,
To prejudice the service of the state,
Or to offend your grace. Once at Cuenca
I rashly hazarded some brave men's lives;
And, for th' unmeaning triumph of a day,
Those brave men's lives were lost. My heart for this
Has suffer'd many a pang; but pride till now
Restrain'd confession. Pardon me for this.

King.
Thou needst from me no pardon; yet thou hast it,
And with it, too, my thanks,—my solemn thanks,
For all the noble service thou hast done me.
And is there no request thou hast to make?

Hen.
Yes, if I might presume. Here is a list
[Giving the King a paper.
Of some brave officers, whose worthy services
Deserve promotion: let them, for my sake,
Find favour with your grace. This is my suit.

King.
It shall be done. Oh that a suit of mine
Could, in return, move thine obdurate bosom!

Hen.
What is't, my gracious master?

King.
If I have been to thee a gracious master,
Be thou a gracious liegeman, and restore—
Restore to me that honour of my reign,
That pride, and fence, and bulwark of my land,—
Restore to me again my gallant general,
Henriquez d'Altavera.

Hen.
Alphonso of Castile, I've serv'd thee long,—
Yea, though I say it, I have served thee bravely.
Have I from fire, or flood, or havoc shrunk?
What battle have I lost, what town abandon'd,
That now I may not, like a noble Spaniard,
My earthly station quit, from insult spared?
I've owed you service as my rightful king;
I've owed you service as my gracious master:
But not for man on earth, nor saint in heaven,
Would I submit a loathed life to live,
After the horrid deed that I have done.

Friar
(laying his hand gently on Henriquez).
My son, my son! where is the Christian meekness,
Which, at the Throne of Grace, some moments since,
Thou didst devoutly pray for?

Hen.
Father, I am reproved: my mortal frailty
Was smother'd, not extinct.
[Turning to the King.
I will not, standing on this awful verge,
To mortal greatness bend, else on my knees
I'd crave forgiveness of this new offence:
[Laying his hand sorrowfully on his breast.
An unrein'd mind, offending to the last!

[The King rushes into his arms and embraces him; then turns away, retiring to the bottom of the stage, to conceal strong emotion.
Hen.
Carlos, thou wilt not leave me till the end;
But thou'lt forgive me now the many wrongs
I've done thine honest worth, fastidiously
Bestowing confidence on one alone. [Taking his hand affectionately.
(Turning to Antonio.)

And thou, brave youth, I know thy gen'rous soul.
Though I have held thee long in doubt, I trust
Thou partst with me in charity.

Ant.
(catching his hands, and kissing them fervently).
In love,
In deepest admiration, in devotion
That for thy sake would make me welcome death,
Yea, suffer shame, or be an outlaw'd wretch,
Cast off from all my kind.

Hen.
Come to my heart! think of me when I'm gone;
And be my fate thy warning. For I see
Keen passions and affections in thy nature,
Akin to those I felt in early youth.
And when thou thinkst of me, consider this:
The law condemneth not a man unheard,
Be he the veriest wretch upon the earth:
But I condemn'd my dearest friend unheard.
Balthazar, thou dost know how very dear—
No, no! thou couldst not know how well I loved him.
Farewell, good secretary, and be sure
Thou mind thy charge. See that it be erected
With strength and skill; a noble monument,
That will resist the silent strokes of time.
(Looking round.)
Where is my ancient servant, good Diego?
How is it that I do not see him here?

Bal.
On learning that your sentence was pronounced,
He took his bed; and whether violent grief
Or other means did speed his end, I know not:
He died last night.

Hen.
Then I shall meet him shortly, where the servant,
Freed from his master, fears his wrath no more.
My poor Diego! he did live with me
In too much awe: and yet he loved me well.
I was to blame in this.

Enter Leonora and Mencia.
Car.
Thy Leonora comes.

Hen.
Ah! would she had been spared this dismal parting!

Car.
She would not be restrain'd.

Hen.
My Leonora, wherefore art thou come?
Yet thou art welcome to my heart once more.
Farewell in love,—in true, in most dear love,
My dearest wife!

Leo.
Oh no! thy cruel wife,
The cause of all thy misery,—thy bane.

Hen.
(embracing her).
Hush, hush! thou wast my torment and my bliss,
But O! far more my bliss! So be content.
I have had many days of prosperous life
Before this storm of misery broke upon me,
Thy love the flower and crown of all. Be comforted!
And Mencia, too, sweet maid, I understand
Thy mute farewell, which I accept. God bless thee!
Antonio, take thy charge.

[Putting Mencia's hand in his.
Heaven bless thee, and farewell, my dearest wifel
Leo.
Not yet, not yet! my swelling heart will burst.
It tries to utter what it cannot.—Oh!

[A bell tolls, and she, giving a loud shriek, falls into the arms of Mencia and Antonio.
Hen.
Bear her away; I may not look again!

[As she is borne off, the King advances to the front.
King.
Farewell, thou noble man! Part we in charity?

Hen.
In charity; and on your royal head
My dying blessing rest!
[Exit King.
Here comes the marshal. Enter Marshal and other officers.

(To the marshal.)
Are all things ready, then? [The marshal bows.
(To Carlos and friar.)

My faithful friends,
Who still cling to my latest throb of life,
I claim of you a kind but painful service!

[He begins to move, the friar walking by his side, and Carlos following, while the bell tolls, and a large door in the centre of the back scene being thrown open, discovers a grand arched passage, lined with guards and other public officers, who, as he passes along, join the procession. The curtain drops.