University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS.

RAYNER:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Rayner.
• Count Zaterloo, a worthless dissipated nobleman of ruined fortune, and chief of a band of lawless ruined men, like himself.
• Bernard gentlemen and followers of Zaterloo.
• Sebastian, gentleman and follower of Zaterloo.
• Hardibrand, an old general.
• Mardonio, a monk.
• Old man of the wood.
• Ohio, a negro attached to the prison.
• Herman, servant to Rayner.
• Richard.
• Bertram.
• Gobus.
• Keeper of the prison, clown, executioners, turnkey, gaoler, messenger, landlord, confessor, crowd, &c.

WOMEN

• Elizabeth.
• Countess Zaterloo, mother to Zaterloo.
• Mira, a courtezan.
• Alice, friend to Mira.

Scene, Germany, near the frontiers of Poland and Silesia.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A noise of voices and unruly merriment is heard, whilst the curtain draws up, and discovers Count Zaterloo, Bernard, Sebastian, and others of their band, seated round a table with wine, &c.
Zat.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! with all this noisy mirth,
Should some grave stranger, on his way misled,
Now push the door ajar, and look upon us
Thus set, what class of men should we be deem'd?
A set of light hearts, snug in fortune's lap,
Who will not go to bed because we may?
Or club of sharpers, flush'd with full success,
New from the spoiling of some simple fool?
Or troop of strolling players, at our ease,
After the labours of our kingly sorrows,
With throats new cool'd at as great charge of wine
As our tough lungs have cost of lady's tears?

Ber.
No, no, thou hast not hit upon it yet:
He'd take thee for the heir of some old miser,
Treating thy friends, as first fruits of thy kingdom,
With flowing bumpers to the quiet rest
Of thy good kinsman's soul.

Zat.
Yes, Bernard, thou sayst well: and thy dark visage,
Lank and unsuited to all mirth, would mark thee
The undertaker, who amongst the guests
Had come on matters of his sable trade,
Grinning a strange, uncomely, jaw-bone smile
O'er the near prospect of his future gains.

Seb.
Methinks, at least, in this gay, jolly band,
He scarcely would discover needy men,
Who better days have seen.

Zat.
Tut, man! thou art too grave; thou art too grave—
Which of you sung that song with merry lay,
Some few nights since? Come, let us have it now.

Zat.
It is a song of Halbert's, is it not?
He was a social jolly-hearted mate,
And had a knack of making ready rhymes.

Ber.
I knew him well: what has become of him?

Zat.
(pretending not to hear).
Fill up your glass, and let the flask go round.

Ber.
What has become of Halbert, dost thou know?

Zat.
(still pretending not to hear).
This wine is richly flavour'd, is it not?

Ber.
It is.—But Halbert; know ye aught of him?

Zat.
The devil take thy question, asking spirit!
For when thou getst a notion by the skirt,
Thou, like an English bull-dog, keepst thy hold,
And wilt not let it go.—
He shot himself in prison some months since:
Now, there's thine answer for thee; art thou satisfied?

[A deep and long pause; then Zaterloo starts up as if he recollected something.
He will be with us ere I've pav'd his way.
Seb.
Hast thou some new associate to propose?

Zat.
Know ye the younger branch of Valvo's house?
Whose valiant father left him but his sword
And his proud spirit, through this changeful world
To shape his way, with heart as truly temper'd
To all the softest witch'ries of refinement
As e'er own'd cherish'd heir of wide domains,
In palace nurs'd.

Seb.
I've seen him when a youth.
But he since then has of a foreign state
The soldier been; and had not now return'd,
But in the hope, 'tis said, of being heir
To his great uncle's vast and rich possessions,
Of which that villain Hubert has depriv'd him
With treach'rous wiles. Poor heart! he has my pity.
'Tis said a ling'ring fever seiz'd upon him
From disappointment; and I marvel not;
The stroke was most severe.

Zat.
And felt more keenly,
For that he left behind him, in the country
To which he now belongs, a gentle maid
And his betroth'd, with whom he thought to share
His promis'd wealth.
But these things rest.—Thus driven as we are
To this uncertain, daring course of life,
The stronger and the more respectable
Our band, the greater chance of prospering.
Our number is too small; and, by my soul,
To see a mean, plebeian, vulgar knave,
Admitted of our fellowship, still rubs
Against my nature. Such a man as Rayner
Is precious, and, once gain'd, is sure and steadfast.
But few days since I met him, dark and thoughtful,
With melancholy and unwonted gait
Slow saunt'ring through lone, unfrequented paths,
Like one whose soul from man's observing eye
Shrinks gall'd, as shrinks the member newly torn
From every slightest touch. Seeing him thus,
I mark'd him for my man.

Ber.
Didst thou accost him?

Zat.
Yes; when to my greeting,
“Thou seest I am unhappy, go thy ways,”
He fretful said, and turn'd. I still persisted,
With soothing words which thrill'd against his heart,
(For in our youthful days we once were playmates,)
Like the sweet tones of some forgotten song,
Till, like a pent-up flood swoln to the height,
He pour'd his griefs into my breast with tears,
Such as the manliest men in their cross'd lives
Are sometimes forced to shed.

Seb.
And spoke he of his love?

Zat.
Nay, there indeed
He was reserv'd; but that part of his story,
Which I from sure authority have learnt,
I still through broken words could shrewdly read,
Although he named it not.

Ber.
Hast thou explain'd to him our course of life?

Zat.
No, that had been too much; but canst thou doubt,
Suff'ring such wrongs as Hubert's artful baseness
Has put upon him, he will scruple long,
Thus circumstanced, to join his arm with ours
In murd'ring the rich villain?

Ber.
(looking at Sebastian, who shrinks back).
I pray thee call it shooting! that plain word
Still makes Sebastian, like a squeamish dame,
Shrink and look lily-faced. To shoot a man
As one in battle shoots a fronted foe;
As from the tavern's broil, in measured field,
One shoots a friend, is nought: — but that word murder—
It hath a horrid sound; pray thee, good captain,
Remember 'tis a band of gentlemen
Thou dost command, and let such gentle phrase
Fall from thy tongue as gentle ears may suit.

[Omnes laughing loud at Sebastian.
Zat.
Hush! Rayner is at hand, I hear his steps. Enter Rayner.

I give you welcome, Rayner, with my heart:
These are my friends, of whom I well might boast,
But that it seems like boasting of myself.
Here, take your place, and join our fellowship.
There is but little need of ceremony
With those whom like misfortunes bring together.

Ray.
I take my seat, honour'd in such a place;
And so far to misfortune am indebted,
Which has procur'd it for me.

[Sits down.
Ber.
(drinking to Rayner).
This do I fill to future fellowship:
To that which makes, at fortune's lowest ebb,
A few brave men united, mock the world
And all its plodding rules; enabling them
Boldly to seize their portion of life's feast,
Which griping av'rice or unjust oppression
Would from them snatch, whilst with insulting scorn
It scoffs at poverty and patient want.

Ray.
Thou truly sayst; at least I have observ'd
That those who bear misfortunes over meekly
Do but persuade mankind that they and want
Are all too fitly match'd to be disjoin'd,
And so to it they leave them.

Ber.
'Tis ever so:
E'en good men then neglect them; but the base,
They, who by mean and undermining arts
To o'ergrown wealth attain, like the ass's heel
'Gainst the sick lion's low and lanken breast,
Spurn at them.

Zat.
Yes, good Bernard, thou speakst truly.
For I myself, who, as thou knowst right well,
Am not too meekly to misfortune bent,
Have somewhat of the worthless ass's kick
Against my bosom felt.—'Lone and unarm'd—
Had but one brave companion by my side
My anger shared, full dearly had the knave—
But let it pass,—he had a brave man's curse,
And that will rest upon him.

Ber.
But, pray thee, count, tell us the circumstance:
Thou speakst in mystery.

Zat.
A few days since, returning near my home,
Upon a narrow path raised from a road
With mud choked up, behind me trampling came,
A band of liv'ried rascals at his heels,
In all his awkward state, a puff'd-up worldling,
And rode me off my way; whilst looking back,
He turn'd his head with a malicious grin
At the poor spatter'd wretch, who in the mud
Stood showering curses on him.

Ray.
Ay, 'tis the cursed insolence of wealth
That makes the poor man poor. Thou wast unarm'd?

Zat.
I was; or by this hand, poor as I am,
I should have spent a brace of bullets on him
With much good-will.

Ray.
Knowst thou the villain's name?

Zat.
Faith, I'm almost ashamed to tell it thee.
Thou knowst him well: he is a rich man now;
His name is Hubert.

Ray.
There lives no blacker villain on the earth
Than he who bears it.—But thou knowst it all.
When from a distant country, where with honour
I earn'd a soldier's pittance, the fair promises
Of a near kinsman tempted me, and I,
Though by my nature most incautious,
And little skill'd to gain by flatt'ring arts
An old man's love, high in his favour stood;
That villain Hubert roused his jealous nature
With artful tales of slights and heir-like wishes,
And covert mock'ry of his feeble age,
Till, in the bitterness of changed love,
All his vast wealth he did bequeath to him,
And left me here, e'en in this stranger's land
(For years of absence makes it so to me),
A disappointed, friendless, unknown man,
Poor and depress'd, such as you see me now.

Ber.
Double, detested, cruel-hearted villain!

Zat.
(starting up with affected vehemence).
By heaven he dies, as I do wear this arm!
[They all start up.
Defended by a host of liv'ried knaves,
I'd seek him out alone.

Ber.
Thou shalt not go alone; here, heart and hand
We will all join thee in so good a cause.

1st gent.
My arm is at thy will.

2d gent.
Take my aid too;
We never can be bold in better cause.

3d gent.
(on receiving a sign from Zaterloo).
Then, sirs, you must be speedy with your vengeance,
For I am well inform'd that on to-morrow,
With all his treasure, for a distant province
He will begin his journey towards eve.

Zat.
Ha! then good fortune leads him to our hands;
How goes he guarded?

3d gent.
With a slender train.

Zat.
Then thanks to fortune's fav'ring smiles, which thus,
Whilst we but seek revenge for a friend's wrongs,
So kindly throws into our heedless way
The easy cure of our necessities.
Yes, let us seize the greedy glutted villain!
Let us disgorge him of his ill-got gains!
He long enough has rioted in ease,
Whilst better men have felt the gripe of want.

Ber.
Yes, let it be so, let the villain die!

Zat.
What sayst thou, Rayner? thou alone art silent.

Ray.
The wrongs are mine, and if with indignation
They fill your breasts, in strong desire of vengeance
Ye well may guess I am not far behind:
But there's a law above all human bonds,
Which damps the eager beating of my heart,
And says, “do thou no murder.”

Zat.
Well, clear thy knitted brows, nor look thus strangely.
We both are form'd, my friend, to know like feelings,
Like wants and wishes, and from better days
Both are reduced to fortune's lowest ebb:
And I as well as thou, standing thus singly,
Can feed my fancy up with strong conceits
Of what in letter'd lore is virtue term'd,
And bear its darkest frowns. There was a time,
When sharing ev'ry wish and ev'ry view
With one of weaker frame and softer soul;
Yet forced by the dark frowns of adverse fortune
To live a willing outlaw from her presence,
Because I could not bear to come before her
A poor despised man, reft of that comeliness
And honest grace which independence gives,
To bid her throw aside her flowing robes
And decent ornaments of maiden pride,
Unveil the sweetness of her shelter'd beauty
To beating mid-day heats and chilling winds,
And be a wand'ring vagrant by my side;—
There was a time, my friend, when, thus beset,
At view of any means to better fortune,
A stronger pow'r had ris'n within my breast
And mock'd at law. But, standing thus alone,
I can as well as thou forego the gain
Which this occasion offers.—Let it pass!
There is within us, be it superstition,
Th'unscann'd opinions from our childhood cherish'd,
Or natural instinct, still a strong aversion
To ev'ry act of blood. Let us yield to it:
We will not strain our nature from its bent:
We'll do no violent deed.

Ray.
(catching hold of Zaterloo with great agitation).
O thou hast moved me! thou hast conjured thought!
Wast thou — wast thou indeed thus circumstnaced?
And thy deserted love; what was her fate?

Zat.
She felt not long the cruel separation:
One lovely bush of the pale virgin thorn,
Bent o'er a little heap of lowly turf,
Is all the sad memorial of her worth;
All that remains to mark where she is laid.

Ray.
Oh! Oh! and was it thus!

Zat.
But let us now shake off these dismal thoughts,
This hour was meant for social fellowship:
Resume your seats, my friends, and, gentle Rayner,
Clear up thy cloudy brows and take thy place.

Ray.
I fain would be excused.

Zat.
(gently forcing him to sit down).
Nay, no excuse:
Thou must perforce a social hour or two
Spend with us. To ye all, my noble friends, Drinks.
I fill this cup.
— Bernard, how goes thy suit?
Hast thou yet to thy greedy lawyer's pocket
Convey'd thy hindmost ducat? Ha, ha, ha!
Had he, with arms in hand, ta'en from thee boldly
Half of the sum, thou wouldst have called him robber.
Ha, ha, ha!

[Laughing heartily.
Ber.
Yes, thou mayst laugh:
We nice distinctions make.—I had an uncle,
Who once upon a time—

Zat.
I hope, good Bernard,
Thy story will be shorter than thy suit.

[Rayner, who has been sitting in gloomy thoughtfulness, without attending to any thing around him, whilst Zaterloo has been keeping an eye of observation on him, now rises up in great agitation to go away.
Zat.
What is the matter, Rayner?

Ray.
I am disturb'd—I know not how I am—
Let me take leave, I pray you.

Zat.
Thou shalt not quit us thus. What is the matter?

Ray.
Question me not: my thoughts are all confused:
There is a strong temptation fasten'd on me.
I am not well.

Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Ay, now it works upon him:
This will do—
[Aloud, and preventing Rayner from going.
If thou'rt unwell, art thou not with thy friends?

Ray.
If ye indeed are friends, not spirits enleagued
To force me to my ruin, let me go—
Let me go to my home.

Zat.
What, dost thou call a bare unfurnish'd chamber,
With griping landlord clam'ring in thine ears
For what he knows thou canst not give, thy home?

Ray.
(sighing deeply).
I have no other.

Zat.
Stay thou here with us:
In the next chamber thou shalt rest awhile.
Lead him, my kind Sebastian, by the hand:
There is a sort of woman's kindliness
About thy nature, which befits thee best
To be a sick man's friend. I'll follow you.
[Exit Rayner, leaning on Sebastian; turning about to his friends triumphantly as they go off.
I have secured my man.
[A voice heard without.
But hark! a voice without! It is my mother's.
Secure the latticed door. Plague on her kindness
To haunt me here! I have forgot my promise.
(To Bernard.)
Make fast the latticed door and answer for me.

Ber.
(after fastening a door of lattice work through which the countess is seen).
Who's there? what want ye?

Countess
(without).
I want my son: I pray you is he here?

Ber.
He is not here.

Countess
(without).
Nay, say not so, I think he is with you.
O tell him I have sate these three long hours,
Counting the weary beatings of the clock,
Which slowly portion'd out the promised time
That brought him not to bless me with his sight.
If he is well, why does he thus forget?
And if he is not, as I fear he is not,
Tell me the worst, and let me be with him
To smooth his couch and raise his sickly head.

Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Tell her it is unseemly for a mother
To run about like a new foolish wife.

Ber.
If you complain thus movingly, fair widow,
We shall believe you seek a second husband
In lieu of your good son; and by my truth
It were a better errand.

Countess.
O base of thought, as most unblest of speech!
My son is not with you: it cannot be:
I did him wrong to seek him in such company.

Ber.
(speaking loud after her as she retires from the door).
Not far from hence, there is a nightly meeting
Of worthy, sober, well-disposed folks,
Who once a week do offer up their prayers
And chant most saintly hymns till morning dawn,
It is more likely you will find him there.

[Omnes laughing.
Zat.
She's gone.

Ber.
Yes, yes; come from thy hiding place.

Zat.
Now what a most unreasonable woman!
Thinks she, thus ripen'd to these manly years,
That I must run whene'er my finger aches
To lean my silly head upon her lap?
'Tis well I have no wife.

Ber.
Ay, so it is.
There is no pleasing those high legal dames
With endless claims upon a man's regard:
Heaven save us from them all!

Zat.
Well, this I drink to precious liberty:
He is a fool indeed who parts with that.
[A loud voice and bustling heard without.
What's this comes next to plague us?

Ber.
'Tis Mira's voice.

Zat.
Hast thou not sent to say, that urgent bus'ness
Detains me from her banquet?

Ber.
I have; I sent to her a written message.

Zat.
Keep fast the door, and I will stand conceal'd.

[Conceals himself, and Mira appears through the latticed door.
Mira
(without.)
Where is Count Zaterloo? Let me pass on.

Ber.
Affairs of greatest consequence detain him.
My beauteous Mira; and I needs must say
That now you may not pass.—
He's much concern'd: early upon the morrow
He will be with you.

Mira.
Upon the morrow! prate not thus to me!
He shall to-night go with me where I list,
Or never see my face again. To-morrow!
Open the door, I say! this weakly barrier
Shall not oppose my way.

[Beating violently against the door.
Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Faith, I believe we must e'en let her in:
She may do some rash thing, if we persist.

[Bernard unbolts the door; Zaterloo comes from his concealment; and enter Mira, superbly dressed, and in a violent passion.
Mira.
Is this the way you keep your promises?
Is this your faith? is this your gallantry?

Zat.
Mira, my gentle love, I pray thee hear me!
I sent to tell thee business of great moment.

Mira.
Yes, yes! I have received your scurvy message,
And well I know that ev'ry paltry matter
Is cause sufficient for neglecting me.

Zat.
Thou knowst to be from thee is painful to me.

Mira.
So it should seem, by taking so much care
To comfort you the while.
[Pointing to the wine, &c.
You do your bus'ness jovially, methinks.

Zat.
Thou art too warm: accuse me as thou wilt
Of aught but want of love.

Mira.
O, thou deceitful man! I know thee well:
Thou talkst of love and thou wouldst break my heart.

Zat.
Indeed I am to blame, my gentle love;
Yet be not thus: in token of forgiveness
This friendly cup receive, and smile upon me.

[Offering her a cup, which she dashes to the ground.
Mira.
Off with thy hateful gifts! nought from thy hands
Will I receive; I scorn thy offering.
E'en the rich robe thou hast so often promised,
Ay and so oft forgot, so I must call it,
I would now scorn, since thou dost slight my love.

Zat.
Indeed, my Mira, thou shalt have that robe
Before two days be past: I swear to thee.
Then do not look so frowningly, my love;
I know thou hast a soft relenting nature;
Smile my forgiveness.

Mira.
O thou provoking man! thou knowst full well
It is thyself and not thy gifts I prize:
Thou knowst too well how my fond doating heart
Is moved with the soft witch'ry of thy tongue;
Yet thou wilt vex me thus, and break my heart.
Oh! 'tis too much!

[Pretending to burst into tears.
Zat.
I cannot see thee weep: what wouldst thou have?

Mira.
I will have nought, unless you go with me.

Zat.
I cannot now, for I have urgent bus'ness.

Mira.
Then stay, and never see my face again.
O that some friendly hand would end my days,
Since I have lived to see me thus despised.

Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Bernard, I think I must e'en go with her.
See thou to Rayner: I will soon return.
(Aloud.)
Then let us go, my love, thou dost compel me.
Thy hand, sweet Mira.

[Exeunt Zaterloo and Mira.
Ber.
Well, gentle friends, it is blest liberty
Our noble chief enjoys. I must to Rayner.
Stay if you will, and keep you merry here.

Omnes.
No, we are tir'd, we will retire to rest.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Rayner's lodgings. Enter Rayner alone.
Ray.
Be still, ye idle thoughts that toss me thus,
Changing like restless waves, but ever dark;
Or one of you above his fellows rise,
And bear a steady rule. Adversity!
Thou'st come upon me like an ambush'd foe
In armed strength. If I had mark'd thy course,
I might have girt myself for thine approach,
While distant still, and met thee like a man.
But when new-fetter'd in a lover's bonds,
And dazzled too with hope's deceitful brightness,
Cam'st thou like a thick cloud of desert sand,
And in dark night o'erwhelm'd me: deepest night,
Through which no waking vision ever gleams,
Save thy grim visage only, loathly want,
In all thy varied forms of misery.
My night, my day dreams, ah! how are ye changed,
Since in the new-betroth'd, the lover's fancy,
Ye wove your sheeny maze of mingled thoughts,
Like sparkling dew-webs in the early sun!
[After a pause.
Elizabeth! methinks e'en now I see her.
As in the horrors of my last night's dream,
When, after following her through flood and fire,
She turn'd to me, and her weak arms stretch'd forth.
But ah! how changed, how pale, and spent, and keen!
As if already blighting poverty,
That portion which her love must share with me,
Had marr'd—cease, cease, base thought, it shall not be! Enter Herman with a knapsack on his back, as if prepared for a journey.

What, my good Herman, art thou so soon ready?

Her.

Yes, my dear master, but if you think it too soon, I will not go to-day. Nay if it were not that you force me to go, I should as soon have thought of deserting my friend (pardon my boldness, sir) in a wild wood amongst savages, as leaving you here in this strange place in the state you are in at present. Pardon my boldness, sir.

Ray.

Thou hast no boldness to pardon, Herman: thou art well entitled to call thyself my friend; there is not one amongst those who have borne that name, who would have done more for me than thou hast done.

Her.

Ah, sir!

Ray.

(assuming a look of cheerfulness).
Fy, do not look so sadly upon me, man; thanks to thy good nursing and the good broth thou hast made me, I am getting strong again: and as for the state of my coffers, for which thou so much concernest thyself, do not let that disturb thee. My tide of means is, to be sure, pretty well ebbed just now; but some wind or other will spring up to set it a flowing again. In the mean time thou knowest I would travel alone: perhaps I may ramble about a little while mysteriously, like the wandering Jew-or some of those lonely philosophers which thy old stories tell thee about, and there is no knowing what I may find out to do me good. The philosopher's stone, thou knowest, may as well fall into my hands as those of any other wanderer: so pray thee, man, don't look so ruefully upon me.

Her.

Ah, my dear master! there is something here that hangs heavy on my heart, and says, if I leave you now, some evil will befall you: I beseech you let me stay with you, I shall find something to do in this town, and I can—

Ray.

No, no, no! Speak of this no more—we have argued this point already. And what is this which thou puttest down so slily upon the table? [Taking up a little packet which Herman has put secretly upon the table.
Ha! the jewels I have given thee in room of thy wages! out upon it! thou wilt make me angry with thee now, and it grieves me to be angry with thee. Put it up, put it up: I command thee to do it; and thou knowest I have not often used this stern word.

Her.

O no, sir! You have not indeed used it; and I shall never meet with another master like you.

Ray.

Thou wilt meet, I hope, my dear Herman, with a far better master than I have been to thee, though not with one for whom thou wilt do so much kindly service as thou hast done for me; and for this cause, perhaps, thou wilt not love him so much. God prosper thee for it, wherever thou goest!— Take this embrace and blessing for all thou hast done for me. Farewell! farewell! thou must be gone now, indeed thou must. God bless thee, my good Herman.

[Pushing Herman gently off the stage, who wipes his eyes and seems unwilling to go.
[Exit Herman.
Ray.
(alone).
Now, am I left alone: there's no one near me
That e'er hath loved or cared for me. Methinks
I now can better look i' th' surly face
Mine alter'd state, and bear to be in want.
I am alone, and I am glad of it.
Alas! changed heart of mine! what is that state
Which gives to thee such thoughts?—Elizabeth—
Again, again! This strong idea still!
I am distracted when I think of this:
Therefore I must not, if I would be honest.
Those men—or are they men or are they devils?
With whom I met last night; they've fasten'd on me
Fell thoughts, which, though I spurn them, haunt me still.
Would I had never met them!
Here comes my landlord with his surly face
Of debts and claims, and ev'ry irksome thing. Enter Landlord with a letter.

Good morrow, landlord.

Land.

I thank you, sir; I am glad to hear you call me landlord; for I began to be afraid you had mistaken me for your host.

Ray.

I understand you well enough, and indeed I have proved your patience, or rather your impatience, much longer than I wished. You have a letter in your hand.

Land.

(giving it).
There, sir; if it bring you the news of any good luck, I shall be glad of it.

Ray.

(agitated).
From Elizabeth, Good morning —good morning to you.

Land.

Read it, sir, and see if it bring you any good news; it is time now to look for some change in your favour.

Ray.

I cannot open it whilst thou art here. Have the goodness at least not to stand so near me.

Land.

So I must not occupy a place in my own house, forsooth, for fear of offending the good folks who do me the honour to live in it.

[Retires to the bottom of the stage, muttering to himself.
Ray.
(after opening the letter with great emotion and reading it).
O What is this?—
Abandon'd by the friend with whom she liv'd,
And coming here to join me with all speed!
O God! O God!

[Sinks down upon a chair in violent agitation.
Land.
(running up to him).
What is the matter now?

Ray.
Begone, begone! I cannot answer thee.

Enter Count Zaterloo.
Zat.
Ha, Rayner! how is't with thee? thou lookst wildly.
(To landlord.)
Speak to me, friend: he heeds not what I say:
Has any new misfortune happen'd to him?

Land.
I fear there has, sir.

Zat.
Rouse thee up, brave Rayner,
A friend is come to thee.

Ray.
(starting up).
Ha, is it thou?
Com'st thou upon me now, my tempter? now,
E'en in my very moment of distraction?
Thou knowst thy time: some fiend has whisper'd to thee.
Ay, ay! say what thou wilt.

Zat.
Thou'rt surely mad; I came not, on my word,
To say aught to thee which an honest ear
Might not receive; nor will I even speak,
Since it so moves thee—

Ray.
(interrupting him eagerly).
Ah, but thou must!
Thou must speak that, which, in its darkest hour,
Push'd to extremity, 'midst ringing dizziness
The ear of desperation doth receive,
And I must listen to it.

Zat.
What, sayst thou so? 'Tis well (aside)
, but be more prudent,
We are o'erheard.
[Looking suspiciously to landlord, who has retired a few paces behind.
Come with me to my lodgings;
There wait my friends; all things shall be concerted:
Come with me, instantly; the time is precious.

Ray.
(in a tone of despair, clasping his hands vehemently).
Ay, ay! I'll go with thee.

[Exeunt Count Zaterloo and Rayner: Manet landlord.
Landlord

(coming forward).
What's this I've overheard? Is this devil now going to tempt the poor distressed young man to do some foul deed in his necessity?—I have tempted him too, with my hard-hearted murmuring about the few wretched pounds that he owes me. I'll run after him and say, I don't care whether he pay me or not. (Running to the door and then stopping short.)
No, no! softly, softly! I dare say it is only some sharping business they have got on hand, such as needy gentlemen are sometimes forced to follow: I have got my conscience newly cleared off at confession last week, and I am to make an offering next holy-day to the shrine of our patron St. Bernard; this is no time, good sooth, to lose such a sum upon scruples.

[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A wood: dark night, with a pale gleam of distant lightning seen once or twice on the edge of the horizon. Advancing by the bottom of the stage, a few moving lights, as if from lanterns, are seen, and at the same time several signal calls and loud whistles are heard, with the distant answer returned to them from another part of the wood. Enter Count Zaterloo, Rayner, Sebastian, and others of the band, armed, and a few of them bearing in their hands dark lanterns. It is particularly requested, if this play should ever be acted, that no light may be permitted upon the stage but that which proceeds from the lanterns only.
Zat.
(to Seb.).
They must be near: didst thou not hear their call?

Seb.
Methought I did; but who in this wild wood
May credit give to either eye or ear?
How oft we've been deceiv'd with our own voices,
From rocky precipice or hollow cave,
'Midst the confused sound of rustling leaves,
And creaking boughs, and cries of nightly birds,
Returning seeming answer!

Zat.
Rayner, where standest thou?

Ray.
Here, on thy left.

Zat.
Surely these wild scenes have depriv'd thy tongue
Of speech. Let's hear thy voice's sound, good man,
To say thou art alive. Thou'rt marvellous silent:
Didst thou not also hear them?

Ray.
I know not truly if I did. Around me,
All seems like the dark mingled mimicry
Of fev'rish sleep; in which the half-doubting mind,
Wilder'd, and weary, with a deep-drawn breath,
Says to itself, “Shall I not wake?”

Zat.
Fy man!
Wilt thou not keep thy soldier's spirit up?
To-morrow's sun will be thy waking time,
And thou wilt wake a rich man and a free.

Ray.
My waking time!—no, no! I must sleep on,
And have no waking.

Zat.
Ha! does thy mind misgive thee on the brink?

Ray.
What passes in my mind, to thee is nothing,
If my hand do the work that's fasten'd on me.
Let's pass to it as quickly as thou wilt,
And do not speak to me.—

Enter Bernard and others, armed, &c.
Zat.
Well met, my friends! well met! for we despair'd
Of ever seeing you.

Seb.
Yet we have heard your voices many times,
Now calling us on this side, now on that,
As though you had from place to place still skipp'd,
Like Will o'the Wisp, to lose us on our way.

Ber.
We've fared alike: so have we thought of you.

Zat.
Have you discover'd aught of those we seek?

Ber.
No; all is still, as far as we have traversed:
No gleaming torch gives notice from afar,
Nor trampling hoofs sound on the distant road.

Zat.
Then must we take again our sev'ral routes,
That haply we may learn, ere he approach,
What strength we have to face, and how he travels:
And that we may not wander thus again,
This aged oak shall be our meeting place;
Where having join'd, we'll by a shorter compass
Attack them near the centre of the wood.

Seb.
The night grows wondrous dark: deepswelling gusts
And sultry stillness take the rule by turns;
Whilst o'er our heads the black and heavy clouds
Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm.

Zat.
I hope the devil will raise no tempest now,
To save this child of his, and from his journey
Make him turn back, crossing our fortunes.

Ber.
Fear not!
For, be the tempest of the devil's raising,
It will do thee no harm. To his good favour
Thou hast (wrong not thy merit) claims too strong.

Zat.
Then come on, friends, and I shall be your warrant!
Growl sky and earth and air, ne'er trouble ye;
They are secure who have a friend at court.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A different part of the wood, wild and savage: the scene still darkened, and a storm of thunder and lightning, accompanied with hail. Enter Rayner.
Ray.
I know not where these men have shelter'd them.
I've miss'd their signal: this loud stunning din
Devours all other sounds. Where shall I go?
Athwart this arch of deep embodied darkness,
Swift shiv'ring lightnings glare, from end to end
Mantling the welkin o'er in vivid flames;
Or from aloft, like sheeted cataracts
Of liquid fire, seem pour'd. E'en o'er my head
The soft and misty-textured clouds seem changed
To piles of harden'd rocks, which from their base,
Like the up-breaking of a ruin'd world,
Are hurl'd with force tremendous. Patt'ring hail
Beats on my shrinking form with spiteful force:
Where shall I shelter me? Ha! through the trees
Peers, near at hand, a small but settled light:
I will make quickly towards it; perhaps
There may be some lone dwelling in the wood.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The inside of a cave: an old man discovered sitting by a small table made of coarse planks, with a lamp burning dimly upon it: the thunder heard still very loud.
Old man.
Doth angry heav'n still roll its loudest peal
O'er th' unblest head? Ay, through its deaf'ning roar
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice,
And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength,
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm
Their distant growl.
'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up
To lord it in the air. The very wind,
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds,
Like bursts of damned howlings from beneath.
Is this a storm of nature's elements?
O, no, no, no! the blood-avenging spirits
Ride on the madding clouds: there is no place,
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest
The unblest head.
[Knocking heard without.
—Ha! knocking at my door!
[Pauses and listens, much alarmed: knocking heard still louder.
Say, who art thou that knockst so furiously?
Thinkst thou the clouds are sparing of their din,
That thou must thunder too? Say who thou art,
And what thou wouldst at such an hour as this,
In such a place?

Ray.
(without).
I am a lone and tempest-beaten traveller,
Who humbly begs a shelter from the night.

Old man.
Then art thou come where guest yet never enter'd.

Ray.
(without).
I do not ask admittance as a guest.
Wouldst thou not save a creature from destruction,
E'en a dumb animal? unbar the door,
And let me lay my body under shelter.

[Old man makes no answer; the storm heard very loud.
Ray.
(without).
If thou'rt a man in nature as in voice,
Thou canst not sit at peace beneath thy roof,
And shut a stranger out to the rude night.
I would, so circumstanced, have shelter'd thee.

Old man.
He tries to move me with a soothing voice.
(Aloud.)
Thou art a knave; I will not let thee in.

Aside.
Ray.
(without).
Belike I am, yet do not fear my wiles:
All men are honest in a night like this.

Old man.
Then I will let thee in: whoe'er thou art:
Thou hast some sense, shouldst thou lack better things.

[He unbars a small door, and Rayner enters, much ruffled and exhausted by the storm, and without his hat.
Ray.
I'm much beholden to thee.

Old man.
No, thou art not.

Ray.
The violence of the night must plead my pardon,
For breaking thus unask'd upon your rest.
But wand'ring from my way, I know not how,
And losing my companions of the road,
Deep in the 'tangled wood the storm o'ertook me;
When spying through the trees this glimm'ring lamp,
And judging it, as now it doth appear,
The midnight taper of some holy man,
Such as do oft in dreary wilds like this
Hold their abode, I ventured onwards.

Old man
(offering him bread and dried fruits).
Perhaps thou'rt hungry.

Ray.
I thank you gratefully.

Old man.
There is no need.
Fall to, if thou hast any mind to it.

Ray.
I thank you truly, but I am not hungry.

Old man.
Perhaps thou'rt dainty: I've nought else to give thee.

Ray.
I should despise myself, if any food
Could bear such value in my estimation,
As that it should to me a straw's worth seem,
To feed on homeliest, or on richest fare.

Old man.
So much the better.

[They sit down.
Ray.
If I may guess from all I see around me,
The luxuries and follies of the world
Have long been banish'd here.

[Old man looks sternly at Rayner, who looks fixedly upon him again, and both remain for some time silent.
Old man.
Why lookst thou so?
What is there in my face that thou wouldst scan?
I'm old and live alone: what wouldst thou know?

Ray.
I crave your pardon, and repress all wishes
That may disturb you.

Old man.
The night wears on, let us both go to rest.

Ray.
I thank you, for in truth I'm very tired.

Old man
(pointing to his couch).
There is thy place.

Ray.
Nay, I am young; the ground shall be my couch.
I will not take your bed.

[Old man then gives Rayner a cloak, which he wraps about him, laying himself down in a corner of the cave. The storm now heard at a distance. After walking up and down for some time, the old man goes close up to Rayner, who appears asleep, and looks earnestly upon him; Rayner, openign his eyes, seems surprised.
Old man.
Be not afraid, I will not cut thy throat.

Ray.
(starting half up from the ground).
Nay, heaven such deed forefend! I fear thee not.
I can defend myself.

[Grasping his sword.
Old man.
Be not offended; but methought thy looks
Did seem as though thou wert afraid of me.
Rest thou in peace—rest thou in peace, young man:
I would not do thee harm for many worlds.

Rayner goes to rest again, still keeping his drawn sword in his hand. The old man goes to rest likewise, but shortly after starts from his couch in great agitation.
Old man.
It is mine hour of horror: 'tis upon me!
I hear th' approaching sound of feet unearthly:
I feel the pent-up vapour's chilly breath
Burst from the yawning vault:—It is at hand.
[Turning towards the door as if he saw some one enter.
Ha! com'st thou still in white and sheeted weeds,
With hand thus pointing to thy bloody side?
Thy grave is deep enough in hallow'd ground!
Why com'st thou ever on my midnight rest?
What dost thou want? If thou hast power, as seeming,
Stretch forth thine arm and take my life; then free
From fleshy fears, in nature as thyself,
I'll follow thee to hell, and there abide
The searing flames: but here, upon this earth,
Is placed between the living and the dead
An awful mystery of separation,
Which makes their meeting frightful and unhallow'd.
[In the vehemence of his agitation he throws out his arm, and strikes it against Rayner, who, alarmed at his ravings, has left his resting-place, and stolen softly behind him.
Ha! what art thou?

[Starting, and turning round to Rayner.
Ray.
Nay, thou with bristling locks, loose knocking joints
And fixed eyeballs starting in their sockets,
Who speakst thus wildly to the vacant space,
Say rather, what art thou?

Old man.
I am a murderer.
[Rayner starts back from him, and drops his sword.
Ah! wherefore dost thou stare so strangely on me?
There's no blood on me now! 'tis long since past.
Hast thou thyself no crime, that thus from me
Thou dost in horror shrink?

Ray.
Most miserable man!

Old man.
Thou truly sayst, for I am miserable.

Ray.
And what am I?
[After a disturbed pause.
The storm did rage and bellow through the air,
And the red lightning shiver'd:
No traveller would venture on his way
In such a night.—O, blessed, blessed storm!
For yet it hath not been, and shall be never.
Most Great and Merciful! saved from this gulf,
May I to thee look up?—No: in the dust—
[As he bows himself to the earth, and is about to kneel, the report of fire-arms is heard without, and he starts up again.
'Tis done!—O, it is done!—the horrible act!

[Exit, beating his forehead violently.
Old man.
What may this be? Some band of nightly robbers
Is near my cave, committing violent deeds.
Thy light, weak flame, shall not again betray me,
And lure unwelcome visitors.

[Puts out the lamp; and, after a dark pause, enter Count Zaterloo, supporting himself an first gentleman, who bears a dark lantern, which he sets down on the ground, and fastens the door of the cave carefully behind them.
Zat.
I am wounded grievously: who would have thought
Of such a powerful guard of armed men
Attending on his journey. He is slain:
Didst thou not see him fall?

1st gent.
Yes; we have kill'd our bird, but lost the eggs.
Fortune has play'd us false, yet we've escaped:
Here we may rest; this cave is tenanted
With some lone being whom we may control,
And take possession—
[Discovering old man.
Something living here!
What art thou?

Old man.
I am a thing no better than yourselves.

1st gent.
The better then for thee that thou art so.

Zat.
Conduct me onward: I perceive an opening
Which leads, I guess, to some more close recess:
Lay me down there, for I am very faint.

1st gent.
I will obey thee,—Come thou too, old man;
Not from my sight one moment must thou budge.
Come on; for, mark me well, shouldst thou betray us,
Though fetter'd down with chains in grated dungeons,
Our arms were long enough to reach to thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Another part of the wood. At a distance, on the background, are discovered two men watching a dead body by the light of a torch stuck between the boughs of a tree: the stage otherwisc perfectly dark. Enter Gobus on the front of the stage.
Gobus.

I fear they will all escape from us amongst these 'tangled paths and vile perplexing thickets. A man cannot get on half a dozen paces here but some cursed clawing thing catches hold of him, and when he turns round to collar his enemy, with a good hearty curse in his mouth, it is nothing but a thorn-bush or a briar after all. A plague upon't! I'll run no more after them if they should never be taken. — Who's there?

Enter a Companion.
Com

What, are you here, Gobus? I thought you had been in search of the robbers.

Gobus

So I was; but what does it signify? they have all got the start of us now, and we can scarcely expect they will have the civility to wait till we come up with them.

Com.

Ay, ay, Gobus, that is a lazy man's argument. Why, there was one of them seen by Bertram not five minutes since, with his head uncovered, stalking strangely amongst the trees like a madman, and he vows he will follow the scent through every path of the wood but he will have him, either alive or dead.

Gobus.

But if he be a young stout robber, he may knock Bertram on the head in the mean time, and relieve him from the obligation of keeping his vow.

Com.

Never fear that: his bugle-horn is by his side, and as soon as he comes up with him he will give his companions notice, and they will run to his assistance.

Gobus.

Well, well, let them manage it the best way they can, and let us join our friends yonder, who keep watch by the body; there is good store of dried sticks in that corner, we may make a fire, and warm ourselves till they return.

[Horn heard without.
Com.

Ha! there is the signal, and close at hand too. He has caught his man and wants assistance; let us run to him, or the villain will escape.

[Exeunt companion and Gobus, who follows rather unwillingly, whilst the men who were watching the body run eagerly to the front of the stage.
1st man.

It sounded to the right hand of us; let us strike into this path.

[Horn sounds again.
2d man.

Ay, there it sounds again; it is to this hand of us, but it is so dark, there is no finding our way.

1st man.

We have been so long by the torch-light that the darkness is darker to us: run back and fetch the light with thee.

[Several other attendants from different parts of the wood run across the stage, calling to one another with great eagerness, whilst the 2d man, running back again to the bottom of the stage, snatches the torch from the tree, and comes forward with it.
Enter Bertram, Gobus, and others, with Rayner as their prisoner.
Gobus

(speaking as they enter).
Here is light! here is light, friends! bring him near it, I pray you, that we may see what kind of a fish we have caught in our net. Ay, just as I said now, as hanged a looking villain as ever scowled through the grates of a dungeon. See what a wild murderous look he has with his eyes! this is the very man that did the deed, I warrant ye. Let us pull the cords faster round his arms though: if he get one of his mischievous hands loose again, there is no knowing which of our brains he may knock out first.

1st man.

It will never be thine, I am sure, thou'rt always safe when the knocking out of brains is going on.

Gobus.

As I'm a sinner he'll get one of his hands loose if we do not take care of him.

(Attempting to tighten the cords round Rayner's arms.)
Ber.

(putting him away with indignation).
For shame, man, he is bound tight enough; I will not suffer thee to lay a finger upon him; and as for the hanged face thou talkst of, alack a-day! it goes to my heart to see him, such a goodly-looking gentleman, for such I'll be sworn he is.

Gobus.

Ay, no doubt! it is ever thus with thee. Thou didst never in thy life see a thief go to the gallows without crying out, “alack a-day! what a fine looking fellow it is!” Ay, and if he could but make shift to howl out half a verse of a psalm along with his father confessor, thou wert sure to notch him down upon thy holiday tables as one of the new made saints. Ay, there be no such great saints now-a-days as those who pass, with the help of a Dominican, through the hangman's hands to the other world; he beats your pope and your cardinals all to nothing in smuggling a sinner cleverly in by the back door to heaven.

Ber.

So much the better for thee; it is the only chance thou hast of ever getting there.—Stand off, I say (pushing Gobus away)
, and do not stare thus upon the prisoner! art thou not ashamed to stare in an unhappy man's face after this fashion? we don't know what hard fate may have brought him into these circumstances. (To the attendants.) Move on: we are losing time here.

Gobus.

What, will you not pinion him more closely?

Ber.

No, beast! I would rather flay the skin off

that fool's back of thine than gall a hair's breadth of his body. (In a softened voice to Rayner.)
Speak, sir, if the rope hurts your arms; we will not use you cruelly.

Ray.

What didst thou say to me? was there kindness in thy voice?

Ber.

Yes, sir, there was kindness in it. Do the ropes hurt your arms? if they do we will loosen them a little.

Ray.

I wist not that my arms were bound: but if thou hast any kindness in thee, give me a drink of water when thou canst get it, for my mouth is very parched.

Ber.

Yes, sir, that you shall not want, though I should pay gold for it.—Move on, comrades: the night is far advanced, and we must guard the prisoner and the dead body of our master back to the city before the morning break.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A spacious court with a magnificent building in front; a great concourse of people are discovered as if waiting in expectation of some sight.
1st crowd.

The court is marvellously long of breaking up; I'm tired of waiting; and yet I don't like to lose the sight, after having stayed so long for it.

2d crowd.

I fear it will go hard with the young man.

3d crowd.

I fear it will, poor gentleman!

Woman crowd.

Ah! poor young man! it is an awful end.

2d crowd.

Ay, I remember well the last criminal that was condemned here; a strong-built man he was, though somewhat up in years. O, how pale he looked as they led him out from court! I think I stood upon this very spot as he passed by me; and the fixed strong look of his features too—it was a piteous sight!

3d crowd.

Ah, man! but that was nothing to the execution. I paid half a dollar for a place near the scaffold; and it would have made any body's heart drop blood to have seen him when he lifted up the handkerchief from his eyes, and took his last look of the day-light, and all the living creatures about him.

2d crowd.

Ay, man, that a human creature should be thus thrust out of the world by human creatures like himself; it is a piteous thing?

Enter a man from the court.
Omnes (eagerly).

What news? what news of the prisoner?

Man.

He has just finished his defence, in which he has acquitted himself so nobly, setting off his words too with such a manly grace, that it is thought by every body he will be set free.

2d crowd.

Indeed! I should not have expected this now; spoke so nobly, sayst thou?

1st crowd.

Yes, yes, noble blood makes noble speaking.

Woman crowd.

Well, and is it not best so? poor young man! I'm sure I'm glad of it.

1st crowd.

And aint I so too, milk-faced doll! though I hate to be kept so long staring for nothing. I wonder what brought me here in a murrain to it!

2d woman.

La! then we sha'n't see him pass by with the chains upon his legs.

1st crowd.

No, no! nor nothing at all. Come, let me pass, I have been too long here. (Pressing through the crowd to get out.)

Woman crowd.

O, you tread upon my toes!

1st crowd.

Devil take you and your toes both! can't you keep them out of people's way then?

Woman crowd.

Plague take it! what had we all to do to come here like so many fools!

Enter a second man from the court.
2d crowd.

Here comes another man from the court. (Calling to the man.)
Ho, friend! is he acquitted yet?

2d man.

No, nor like to be; the judge is just about to pronounce sentence upon him, but something came so cold over my heart, I could not stay to hear it.

[Several of the mob climb eagerly up upon the walls of the building, and look in at the uindows.
Crowd (below).

What do you see there, sirs?

Crowd (above).

The judge is just risen from his seat, and the black signal is lifted up.

Omnes.

Hush! hush! and let us listen!

[A deep parst.
Crowd

(above).
Sentence is passed now.

Crowd

(below).
God have mercy on him!

3d crowd.

I would not wear my head upon his shoulders for all the prince's coffers.

1st crowd.

Alas! poor man! he is but a youth.

2d crowd.

Yet he must be cut off in the flower of his days.

1st crowd.

It is an awful thing!

Woman crowd.

Ah! but a youth, and a goodly-looking youth too, I warrant ye.

2d woman.

Alack a-day! many a one falls into crimes, but all do not pay the forfeit.

3d crowd.

Ha! who comes this way so fair and so gentle in her mien; thus toss'd and 'tanglel amidst the pressing crowd, like a stalk of will flower in a bed of nettles? Come, clear the way there, and let the lady pass.

Enter Elizabeth, attended by Richard, the crowd making way for her.
Eliz.

I'm much obliged to you.

Richard.

We thank you, good sirs! My mistress and I are both strangers in this town, and the nearest way to your best inn, as we are told, is through this court; but the crowd is so great I think we had better turn back again.

Eliz.

What is the meaning of this eager multitude, So gather'd round the entry to this palace?

3d crowd.

It is no palace, madam, but a public court: there is a gentleman of noble birth who is just now condemned to death for murder, and we are waiting to see him led forth from his trial; you had better stop a little while and see the sight too.

Eliz.

O, no! I'm come here in an evil hour!— A gentleman of noble birth—Alas! but that the crime is murder, 'twere most piteous.

Omnes

(eagerly).
There he comes! see, see! there he comes!

Enter Rayner, fettered and guarded, from the court, followed by Bertram and others, and advances slowly towards the front of the stage, the crowd opening and making a lane for him on every side.
1st crowd.
What a noble gait he has even in his shackles!

2d crowd.
Oh! oh! that such a man should come to this!

Eliz.
(after gazing eagerly at the distant prisoner).
Merciful heaven! the form has strong resemblance.

Rich.
Sweet mistress, be not terrified with forms;
'Tis but a distant form.

Eliz.
Ha! then it strikes thee too!—Merciful God!

Rich.
Patience, dear madam! now as he advances,
We shall be certified of the deception.
Rayner is not so tall as this young man,
Nor of a make so slender; no, nor yet—

Eliz.
Peace, peace! for he advances.

[Watching the prisoner as he advances with a countenance of distracted eagerness, till he comes near her; then, uttering a loud shriek, falls down, and is supported by Richard and several of the crowd.
Offi.
(conducting Rayner).
What fainting maid is this obstructs the way?
Let not the crowd so closely press around her.
Open the way, and let the pris'ner pass.

Ray.
(upon the crowd opening and discovering Elizabeth).
O, sight of misery! my Elizabeth!
The last and fellest stroke of angry heav'n
Falls on this cursed head.

Offi.
What may this mean? let us pass on: we stop not,
Whate'er betide.

Ray.
Nay, but you do: for here there is a power
Stronger than law or judgment. Give me way:
It is permitted me by ev'ry sense
Of human sympathy, were I e'en bound
With chains tenfold enlock'd.
[Bending over Elizabeth.
Thou loveliest and thou dearest! O thou part
Of my most inmost self! art thou thus stricken?
Falls this stroke on thee?
[Kneeling down and endeavouring to support her, but finding himself prevented by his chain.
Is there not strength in the soul's agony
To burst e'en bands of iron?
[Trying furiously to burst his fetters, but cannot; then, with a subdued voice,
Am I indeed a base condemned wretch,
Cut off from ev'ry claim and tie of nature?
[Turning to the officer.
Thou who dost wear the law's authority,
May it not be permitted for the love
Of piteous charity?—Shall strangers' hands
Whilst I am thus—O, do not let it be!

Offi.
No, no! move on: it cannot be permitted.

Ray.
(fiercely roused).
What, sayst thou so?
[Turning to the crowd.
Ye who surround me, too,
Each with the form and countenance of a man,
Say ye 'tis not permitted?
To you I do stretch forth these fetter'd hands,
And call you men: O, let me not miscall you!

Voices from the crowd.
Fie on't! unbind his hands, unbind his hands,
And we will stand his sureties.

Ber.
(stepping forward in a supplicating posture to the officer).
Do but unbind his hands a little space,
And shoot me through the head if he escape.
My arm secured him; be my recompense
This one request.

Offi.
(to Bertram).
Go to; thou art a brave man, but a weak one.
(To the guard.)
Move on: we halt no longer.

Crowd.
By all good saints we stand by the brave Bertram,
And he shall be unshackled.

[Menacingly.
Offi.
Soldiers, present your muskets to these madmen,
And let them speak; the pris'ner halts no longer;
Move on.

[A tumult between the crowd and the guard, and Rayner is forced off the stage by the soldiers.
1st crowd.

Shame light on such hard-hearted cruelty!

2d crowd.

If there had been but six of us with arms in our hands he durst not have put this affront upon us.

3d crowd.

But who looks to the lady? She is amongst strangers it seems, and has only this poor old man to take care of her.

Omnes.

We will take care of her then; we will take care of her: ay, and she shall be waited upon like an empress.

2d crowd.

Ay, so she shall, let the cost be what it will. I am only a poor cobbler, God knows, yet I will pawn the last awl in my stall but she shall be waited upon like an empress. See! see! she begins to revive again.

Eliz.
(opening her eyes with a heavy sigh).
Is it all vanish'd? 'twas a dreadful vision!
[Looking on the crowd around her.
O, no! the crowd is here still—it is real;
And he is led away—horrible! horrible!

[Faints again, and is carried off the stage by Richard and the crowd.

SCENE II.

A square court, surrounded on all sides by the gloomy walls of a prison, the windows of which are narrow and grated, and the heads of one or two of the prisoners seen looking ruefully through the grates. Enter Hardibrand, and looks round him for some time without speaking.
Har.
Gloomy enough, gloomy enough, in faith!
Ah! what a wondrous mass of dreary walls,
Whose frowning sides are riv'n in narrow slips,
As I have seen full oft some sea-worn cliff,
Pierced with the murky holes of savage birds.
Ah! here the birds within are clipt o' wing,
And cannot fly away. Enter Ohio with a tankard in his hand, crossing the stage.

Holla, my friend! I pray thee not so fast;
Inform me, if thou canst, where I may find
The keeper of the prison.

Ohio.
Know you what prince you speak to? saucy knave!
I'll have thee scorch'd and flay'd, and piece-meal torn,
If thou dost call me friend.

Har.
Good words at least; I meant thee no offence.
I see thou hast a tankard in thy hand,
And will not question thy high dignity.
Softly; here's money for thee.

[Giving him money.
Ohio.
Silver pieces!
He! he! he! he! hast thou got more of them!

Har.
Nay, thou art greedy; answer first my question;
Tell me at which of all these gloomy doors
I needs must knock to find out the chief gaoler.
Thou lookst like some fetch-carry to the prisoners;
Dost understand me?

Ohio.
Ay, there's the place, go knock at yonder door.

Har.
(after knocking).
This door is close nail'd up, and cannot open.

Ohio
(grinning maliciously, and pointing to another door).
No, thou art wrong; it is the door hard by,
With those black portals.
[Hardibrand knocks at the other door.
Knock a little louder.

Har.
(after knocking some time).
A plague upon't! there is no one within.

Ohio
(still grinning maliciously).
No, thou art wrong again: it is not there:
It is that door upon the other side.

[Pointing to the opposite wall.
Har.
What, dost thou jest with me, malicious varlet?
I'll beat thee if thou tell me false again.

Ohio.
Negroes be very stupid, master friend.

Enter the Keeper of the prison.
Keeper
(to Ohio).
Thou canker-worm! thou black-envenom'd toad!
Art thou a-playing thy malicious tricks?
Get from my sight, thou pitchy viper, go!

[Exit Ohio.
Har.
What black thing is it? it appears, methinks,
Not worth thine anger.

Keeper.
That man, may't please you, sir, was born a prince.

Har.
I do not catch thy jest.

Keeper.
I do not jest; I speak in sober earnest;
He is an Afric prince of royal line.

Har.
What sayst thou? that poor wretch who sneaketh yonder
Upon those two black shanks?

[Pointing off the stage.
Keeper.
Yes, even he:
When but a youth, stol'n from his noble parents,
He for a slave was sold, and many hardships
By sea and land hath pass'd.

Har.
And now to be the base thing that he is!
Well, well, proceed.

Keeper.
At last a surly master brought him here,
Who, thinking him unfit for further service,
As then a fest'ring wound wore hard upon him,
With but a scanty sum to bury him,
Left him with me. He ne'ertheless recover'd;
And though full proud and sullen at the first,
Tamed by the love of wine which strongly tempts him,
He by degrees forgot his princely pride,
And has been long establish'd in these walls
To carry liquor for the prisoners.
But such a cursed, spite-envenom'd toad!—

Har.
Out on't! thou'st told a tale that wrings my heart.
Of royal line; born to command, and dignified
By sufferings and dangers past, which make
The meanest man ennobled: yet behold him;
[Pointing off the stage.
How by the wall he sidelong straddles on
With his base tankard!—O, the sneaking varlet!
It makes me weep to hear his piteous tale,
Yet my blood boils to run and cudgel him.
But let us on our way.

Keeper.
You are a noble stranger, as I guess,
And wish to be conducted through the prison.
It is an ancient building of great strength,
And many strangers visit it.

Har.
It is indeed a place of ancient note.
Have you at present many criminals
Within these walls?

Keeper.
Our number is, thank God! respectable,
Though not what it has been in better days.

Har.
In better days!—Well, do thou lead the way.

[As they are about to go off the stage, they are stopped by a voice singing from one of the highest windows.
Har.
Alas, poor soul! I would that thou wert free!
What weary thrall is this that sings so sweetly?

Keeper.
A restless, daring outlaw;
A fellow who hath awed the country round,
And levied contributions like a king,
To feast his jolly mates in wood and wild;
Yea, been the very arbiter of fortune,
And as his freakish humours bit, hath lifted
At one broad sweep the churl's saved store to leave it
In the poor lab'rer's cot, whose hard-worn palm
Had never chuck'd a ducat 'gainst its fellow.

Har.
'Tis a brave heart! has he been long confined?
But list! he sings again.

Har.
Poor pent up wretch! thy sou roves far from home.

Har.
'Tis even so, brave heart, or blunt or keen,
Thy measure has its stint. Enter Bertram from one of the doors of the prison.

I think thou hast the air of an old soldier:
[To Bertram as he is burrying past him.
Such, without greeting, never pass me by.
Ha, Bertram! is it thou?

Ber.
What, mine old general?

Har.
Yes, and mine old soldier.
How dost thou, man? how has it fared with thee
Since thou hast left the service?

Ber.
I thank your honour; much as others find it;
I have no cause to grumble at my lot.

Har.
'Tis well, but what's the matter with thee now?
Thine eyes are red with weeping, and thy face
Looks ruefully.

Ber.
I've been to visit, here, a noble youth,
Who is condemn'd to die.

Har.
A noble youth!

Ber.
Yea, a soldier too.

Har.
A soldier!

Ber.
Ay, your honour, and the son
Of a most gallant soldier.

Har.
But he is innocent?

Ber.
He is condemn'd.

Har.
Shame on it! were he twenty times condemn'd,
He's innocent as are these silver'd locks.
[Laying his hand vehemently on his head.
What is his name?

Ber.
Rayner.

Har.
Ha! son to my old comrade, Rayner!
Out on the fools! I would as soon believe
That this right hand of mine had pilfer'd gold
As Rayner's son had done a deed of shame.
Come, lead me back with thee, for I must see him.

Ber.
Heav'n bless your honour! O, if by your means
He might have grace!

Har.
Come, let us go to him.

Ber.
Not now, an' please you: he is now engaged
With one most dear to him. But an hour hence
I will conduct you to his cell.

Har.
So be it!
Mean time, stay thou with me, and tell me more
Of this unhappy youth: I have a mind,
With the good keeper's leave, to view the prison.

[Exeunt.
Enter Mira and Alice by opposite sides, both muffled up in cloaks and their faces concealed.
Mira
(stopping Alice).
Nay, glide not past me thus with muffled face:
'Tis I, a visitor to these grim walls,
On the same errand with thyself. How goes it
With our enthralled colleague? doth he promise
Silence to keep in that which touches us
Of this transaction, for the which he's bound?

Alice.
He is but half persuaded; go thyself
And use thy arts—hush, here's a stranger near us.
[Enter a man who gives a letter mysteriously to Mira, and upon her making a sign to him, retires to the bottom of the stage whilst she reads it.
What readst thou there, I pray thee, that thy brows
Knit thus ungraciously at ev'ry line?

Mira.
Knowst thou that I must doff my silken robes,
Despoil my hair of its fair ornaments,
And clothe me in a gown of palmer's grey,
With clouted shoon and pilgrim's staff in hand
To bear me o'er rude glens and dreary wastes
To share a stony couch and empty board,
All for the proving of my right true love
For one in great distress. Ha! ha! ha! ha!
So doth this letter modestly request:
I pray thee read it.

Alice
(reading the letter).
“A deadly wound rankles in my side, and I have no skilful hand to dress it, and no kind friend to comfort me. I am laid upon the cold earth, and feel many wants I never knew before. If thou hast any love for me, and as thou hast often wished to prove that love, come to me quickly: but conceal thyself in the coarse weeds of a pilgrim; my life is a forfeit to the law if any one should discover where I am. A friend in disguise will give into thy hands this letter, and conduct thee to thy miserable Zaterloo.”
(Returning the letter.)
And what sayst thou to this?

Mira.
I have, in truth, upon my hands already
Troubles enough; this is, thou knowst, no time
To take upon me ruin'd men's distresses.

Alice.
But 'tis thyself hast brought this ruin on him:
'Twas thy extravagance.

Mira.
Thou art a fool!
His life's a forfeit to the law: 'tis time,
Good time, in faith! I should have done with him.
Why dost thou bend these frowning looks on me?
How many in my place would for the recompense
Betray him to the officers of justice!
But I, thou knowst right well, detest all baseness,
Therefore I will not.

Alice.
Hush, hush! thou speakst too loud:
Some one approaches.

Enter Countess Zaterloo.
Countess
(to Mira).
I pray you, madam, pardon this intrusion;
Tracing your steps, I have made bold to follow you.
I am the mother of an only son,
Whom for these many days I have not seen:
I know right well nought is conceal'd from you
Of what concerns him; let me know, I pray you,
Where I may find my child.

Mira.
Madam, you speak to one who in his secrets
Has small concern.

Countess.
Nay, now, I pray you, do not keep it from me:
I come not with a parent's stern rebuke:
O tell me where he is, for love of grace:
But, if you will not, say if he is sick,
Or if he is distress'd with any want.
Tell, for love's sake! I have no child but him.

Mira
(giving her the letter).
There, madam; this is all I know of him.
'Twas yonder stranger gave it to my hand;
[Pointing to the man.
We need not interrupt you with our presence;
And so good day.

[Exeunt Mira and Alice.
Countess
(after reading the letter).
Alas, my son! and art thou low and wounded?
Stretch'd on the cold ground of thy hiding place
In want and fear? Oh art thou come to this?
Thou who didst smile in thy fair op'ning morn,
As cherubs smile who point the way to heaven.
And wouldst thou have a stranger come to thee?
Alas! alas! where can thy aching head
So softly rest as on a parent's lap?
Yes, I will wrap me in the pilgrim's weeds,
Nor storm nor rugged wild shall bar my way.
And though declining years impair my strength,
These arms shall yet support thy feeble frame,
When fairer friends desert thee.
(To the messenger, beckoning him to come forward.)
Good friend, this is no place to question thee!
Come with me to my home.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The inside of the prison. Rayner and Elizabeth are discovered sitting sorrowfully by one another in earnest discourse.
Ray.
Thou sayest well, my sweet Elizabeth;
In this I have against thy love offended.
But in the brightness of fair days, in all
The careless gaiety of unruffled youth,
Smiling like others of thy sex, I loved thee;
Nor knew that thou wert also form'd to strive
With the braced firmness of unyielding virtue
In the dark storms of life—alike to flourish
In sunshine or in shade.—Alas! alas!
It was the thoughts of seeing thee—but cease!
The die is cast; I'll speak of it no more:
The gleam which shows to me thy wondrous excellence
Glares also on the dark and lowering path
That must our way divide.

Eliz.
O no! as are our hearts, one is our way,
And cannot be divided. Strong affection
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things.
I will unto thee cling with strength so terrible,
That human hands the hold will ne'er unlock.

Ray.
Alas, my love! these are thy words of woe,
And have no meaning but to speak thy woe:
Dark fate hangs o'er us, and we needs must part.
The strong affection that o'ercometh all things,
Shall fight for us indeed, and shall o'ercome:
But in a better world the vantage lies
Which it shall gain for us; here, from this earth
We must take different roads and climb to it,
As in some pitiless storm two 'nighted travellers
Lose on a wild'ring heath their 'tangled way,
And meet again.

Eliz.
Ay, but thy way, thy way, my gentle Rayner—
It is a terrible one.
Oh flesh and blood shrinks from the horrid pass!
Death comes to thee, not as he visiteth
The sick man's bed, pillow'd with weeping friends:
O no! nor yet as on the battle's field
He meets the blood-warm'd soldier in his mail,
Greeting him proudly.—Thou must bend thy neck,
This neck round which mine arms now circled close
Do feel the loving warmth of youthful life:
Thou must beneath the stroke—O horrid! horrid!

Ray.
(supporting her from sinking to the ground).
My dear Elizabeth, my most beloved!
Thou art affrighted with a horrid picture
By thine own fancy traced; look not upon it:
All is not dreadful in the actual proof
Which on th' approach frowns darkly. Rouse thy spirit;
And be not unto me at this dark push
My heaviest let; thou who shouldst be my stay.
[She groans heavily.
What means that heavy groan? I'll speak its meaning,
And say, that thou to nature's weakness hast
The tribute paid, and now wilt rouse thyself
To meet with noble firmness what perforce
Must be; and to a lorn and luckless man,
Who holds in this wide world but thee alone,
Prove a firm, gen'rous, and heart-buoyant mate,
In the dark hour. Do I not speak it rightly?

Eliz.
Thou dost, thou dost! if nature's weakness in me
Would yield to the heart's will.

[Falling on his neck in a burst of sorrow.
Enter Father Mardonio.
Mar.
My children, ye have been in woful conference
Too long: chide not my zeal that hither brings me
To break upon it. On you both be shed
Heav'n's pitying mercy!

Ray.
Amen, good father! thou dost call us children
With a most piteous and kindly voice:
Here is a daughter who in this bad world
Will yet remain to want a father's care;
Thus let me form a tie which shall be sacred;
[Putting Elizabeth's hand into Mardonio's.
She has no parent.
Enter Keeper of the prison.
What brings thee here? We would be left in peace.

Keeper
(to Rayner).
I am by a right noble stranger urged,
Who says he has in many a rough campaign
Served with your valiant father in the wars,
To let him have admittance to your presence.
Bertram conducts him hither.

Ray.
Served with mine honour'd father! and thus circumstanced,
Now comes to see his son! Well, be it so:
This is no time for pride to wince and rear,
And turn its back upon the patt'ring hail,
Bearing the thunder's shock. Let it e'en be:
Admit him instantly.
[Calling him back.
Nay, ere thou goest,
What is he call'd?

Keeper.
The Gen'ral Hardibrand.

Ray.
An honour'd name. [Exit Keeper.
(To Elizabeth.)

Retire, my love:
I cannot bear to have thy woes exposed
Before a stranger's gaze.

[She retires with Mardonio to an obscure part of the prison at the bottom of the stage.
Enter Hardibrand and Bertram.
Har.
(to Bertram: stopping short as he enters, and gazing upon Rayner, who is turned away from them, and looking after Elizabeth).
It is the son of Rayner: in his form
And face, though thus half turn'd from us, I see
His father. Still a soldier and a gentleman
In ev'ry plight he seem'd. A clown or child
Had sworn him such clad in a woollen rug.
[Advancing to Rayner.
Young soldier, I did know your gallant father;
Regard me not as an intruding stranger.

Ray.
I thank you, courteous sir: in other days
Such greeting to my heart had been most welcome.
A gallant father and condemned son
May in the letter'd registers of kindred
Alliance have; but in the mind's pure record,
They no relation bear: let your brave friend
Still be to you as one who had no son.

Har.
No, boy; that sentiment bespeaks thy blood.
Heed not those fetter'd hands: look in my face,
Look in my face with the full confidence
Of a brave man; for such I'll swear thou art.
Thinkst thou that I am come to visit thee
In whining pity as a guilty man?
No, by the rood! if I had thought thee such,
Being the son of him whose form thou wearst,
I should have cursed thee. Thou by mis'ry press'd,
Hast strongly tempted been, I know thy story:
Bertram has told it me: and spite of courts,
And black-robed judges, laws, and learn'd decisions,
I do believe it as I do my creed.
Shame on them! Is all favour and respect
For brave and noble blood forgotten quite?

Ray.
Ah, do not fear! they will remember that,
And nail some sable trappings to my coffin.

Har.
I would that to their grave and pompous chairs
Their asses' ears were nail'd! Think they that men,
Brave men, for thou thyself—What corps, I pray thee,
Didst thou belong to in thy prince's service?

Ray.
The first division of his fourth brigade
Was that in which I served.

Har.
Thou hast companion been to no mean men.
Those six brave officers of that division,
Upon the famed redoubt, in his last siege,
Who did in front o' th' en'my's fiercest fire
Their daring lodgement make, must needs of course
Be known to thee.

Ray.
I knew them well; five of them were my friends.

Har.
And not the sixth?

Ray.
He was, alas! my greatest enemy;
To him I owe these bonds.

Har.
A curse light on his head, brave though he be!

Ray.
O curse him not, for woes enough already
Rest on his wretched head.

[Bowing low, and putting his hand on his head.
Har.
Ha! thou thyself,—thou wast thyself the sixth!
Thank heav'n for this! Then let them if they will
Upon a thousand scaffolds take thy life,
And spike thy head a thousand feet aloft;
Still will I say thy father had a son.
[Rushing into his arms.
Come to my soldier's heart, thou noble bird
Of a brave nest!—must thou indeed be pluck'd
And cast to kites? By heav'n thou shalt not die!
Shall such a man, as thou art, from his post
Be shamed and push'd for one rash desp'rate act?
It shall not be, my child! it shall not be!

Ray.
(smiling).
In faith, good gen'ral, could your zeal prevent it,
I am not yet so tired of this bad world,
But I could well submit me to the change.

Har.
I'll with all speed unto the governor,
Nor be discouraged, though he loudly prate
That grace and pardon will but leave at liberty
The perpetrators of such lawless deeds
To do the like again, with such poor cant.

[Elizabeth, who has been behind backs, listening eagerly to their conversation, and stealing nearer to them by degrees in her eagerness to hear it, now rushes forward, and throws herself at Hardibrand's feet.
Eliz.
We ask not liberty; we ask but life.
O grant us this, and keep us where they will,
Or as they will. We shall do no disquiet.
O let them grant us life, and we will bless them!

Ray.
And wouldst thou have me live, Elizabeth,
Forlorn and sad, in loathly dungeon pent,
Kept from the very use of mine own limbs,
A poor, lost, caged thing?

Eliz.
Would not I live with thee? would not I cheer thee?
Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sad?
I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air,
And make a little parlour of thy cell:
With cheerful labour eke our little means,
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in
The news and passing stories of the day.
I'd read thee books: I'd sit and sing to thee:
And every thing would to our willing minds
Some observation bring to cheer our hours.
Yea, e'en the varied voices of the wind
O' winter nights would be a play to us.
Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Rayner!
How many suffer the extremes of pain,
Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight
Few years to spend upon a weary couch
With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to mingle!
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me?

Ray.
I could live with thee in a pitchy mine;
In the cleft crevice of a savage den,
Where coils the snake, and bats and owlets roost,
And cheerful light of day no entrance finds.
But wouldst thou have me live degraded also;
Humbled and low? No, liberty or nought
Must be our boon.

Har.
And thou shalt have it too, my noble youth:
Thou hast upon thy side a better advocate
Than these grey hairs of mine.
(To Elizabeth.)
Bless that fair face! it was not made for nothing.
We'll have our boon; such as befits us too.
No, hang them if we stoop to halving it!
[Taking her eagerly by the hand.
Come with me quickly; let us lose no time:
Angel from heaven thou art, and with heav'n's power
Thou'lt plead and wilt prevail.

Ray.
In truth thou wilt expose thyself, my love,
And draw some new misfortune on thy head.

[Endeavouring to draw her away from Hardibrand.
Eliz.
(to Hardibrand).
What new misfortune? can they kill thee twice?
We're tardy: O move quickly! lose no time!

Har.
Yes, come, and Bertram here will guide our way:
His heart is in the cause.

Ber.
Yes, heart and soul, my gen'ral. Would my zeal
Could now make some amends for what those hands
Against him have unwittingly committed.
O that the fellest pains had shrunk their nerves
Ere I had seized upon him!

Ray.
Cease, good Bertram!
Cease to upbraid thyself. Thou didst thy duty
Like a brave man, and thou art in my mind:
Not he who seized, but he whose gen'rous pity
Did, in my fallen state, first show me kindness.
[Bertram kisses his hand.
Go go! they wait for thee.

Ber.
They shall not wait. Would that we were return'd,
Bearing good tidings!

Har.
O fear it not, my heart says that we shall.

[Exeunt Elizabeth, Hardibrand, and Bertram. Manent Rayner and Mardonio.
Mar.
Hope oft, my son, unbraces the girt mind,
And to the conflict turns it loosely forth,
Weak and divided. I'm disturb'd for thee.

Ray.
I thank thee, father, but the crime of blood
Your governor hath ne'er yet pardon'd; therefore
Be not disturb'd for me; my hopes are small.

Mar.
So much the better. Now to pious thoughts
We will direct—Who comes to interrupt us?

Enter the Turnkey.
Ray.
It is the turnkey; a poor man who, though
His state in life favours not the kind growth
Of soft affections, has shown kindness to me.
He wears upon his face the awkwardness
And hesitating look of one who comes
To ask some favour; send him not away.
(To turnkey.)
What dost thou want, good friend? out with it, man!
We are not very stern.

Turnkey.
Please you, it has to me long been a priv'lege
To show the curious peasantry and boors,
Who from the country flock o' holy days,
Through his strait prison bars, the famous robber,
That overhead is cell'd; and now a company
Waits here without to see him, but he's sullen
And will not show himself. If it might please you
But for a moment opposite your grate
To stand, without great wrong to any one,
You might pass for him, and do me great kindness.
Or the good father there, if he be willing
To doff his cowl and turn him to the light,
He hath a good thick beard, and a stern eye,
That would be better still.

Ray.
(laughing).
Ha! ha! ha! what say ye to it, father?

[Laughing again more violently than at first.
Mar.
(turning out the turnkey in a passion, and returning sternly to Rayner).
What means this wild and most unnatural mirth;
This lightness of the soul, strange and unsuited
To thy unhappy state? it shocks me much.
Approaching death brings nought to scare the good,
Yet has it wherewithal to awe the boldest:
And there are seasons when the lightest soul
Is call'd on to look inward on itself
In awful seriousness.

Ray.
Thou dost me wrong; indeed thou dost me wrong.
I laugh'd, but, faith! I am not light of soul:
And he who most misfortune's scourge hath felt
Will tell thee laughter is the child of mis'ry.
Ere sin brought wretchedness into the world,
The soberness of undisturbed bliss
Held even empire o'er the minds of men,
Like steady sunshine of a cloudless sky.
But when it came, then came the roaring storm,
Lowering and dark; wild, changeful, and perturb'd;
Whilst through the rent clouds ofttimes shot the gleam
More bright and powerful for the gloom around it.
E'en 'midst the savage strife of warring passions,
Distorted and fantastic, laughter came,
Hasty and keen, like wild-fire in the night;
And wretches learnt to catch the fitful thought
That swells with antic and uneasy mirth
The hollow care-lined cheek. I pray thee pardon!
I am not light of soul.
Death is to me an awful thing; nay, father,
I fear to die. And were it in my power,
By suffering of the keenest racking pains,
To keep upon me still these weeds of nature,
I could such things endure, that thou wouldst marvel,
And cross thyself to see such coward-bravery.
For oh! it goes against the mind of man
To be turn'd out from its warm wonted home,
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill.

Mar.
Come to my breast, my son! thou hast subdued me.
[Embracing him.
And now we will lift up our thoughts to Him
Who hath in mercy saved thy hands from blood.

Ray.
Yes, in great mercy, for the which I'd bow
In truer thankfulness, my good Mardonio,
E'en with these fears of nature on my mind,
Than for the blessing of my spared life,
Were it now proffer'd me.

[They retire into the obscurity of the dungeon, at the bottom of the stage, and the scene closes on them.

SCENE II.

A small apartment in a solitary cottage in the country. Enter Count Zaterloo, supported by an attendant, and followed by the Countess in the disguise of a pilgrim; both of them wearing masks. She places a pillow for his head on a couch or sickchair, and he is placed upon it, apparently with pain.
Countess
(to attendant).
There, set him gently down; this will support him.
(To Count Zaterloo.)
How art thou now? I fear thou'rt very faint
After so long a journey.
(To attendant.)
We have no farther need of thine assistance:
Thou wilt retire, but be upon the watch.

[Exit attendant.
Zat.
(unmasking).
Now, charming Mira, lay disguise aside;
Speak thine own natural voice, and be thyself:
There is no eye to look upon us now;
No more excuse for this mysteriousness.
Let me now look upon thy face and bless it!
Thou hast done well by me: thou'rt wondrous gentle.
I knew thee fair and charming, but I knew not
Thou wast of such a soft and kindly nature.
[The countess unmasks and looks at him sorrowfully.
Ha, mother! is it you?

Countess.
Who should it be? where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for suecour;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?
The world may scowl, acquaintance may forsake,
Friends may neglect, and lovers know a change,
But when a mother doth forsake her child,
Men lift their hands and cry, “a prodigy!”

Zat.
(taking hold of both her hands and kissing them.)
O mother! I have been a thankless child!
I've given thee hoary hairs before thy time;
And added weight to thy declining years,
Who should have been their stay.

Countess.
Be calm, my son, for I do not upbraid thee.

Zat.
Wretch that I am! I was an only son,
And therefore bound by no divided tie
To be to thee thy hold and thy support.
I was a widow's son, and therefore bound
By every generous and manly tie
To be in filial duty most devoted.
O I have vilely done! I feel it now;
But if I live to be a man again,
I'll prove a better son to thee, dear mother.

Countess.
I know thou wilt, my dearest Zaterloo;
And do not thus upbraid thyself too sharply;
I've been a foolish mother to thy youth,
But thou wilt pardon me.

Zat.
Of this no more—How came you by my letter?
If you did intercept it on its way,
Mira is faithful still.

Countess.
It was from Mira's hand that I received it.
She toss'd it at me with a jeering smile
When I with anxious tears inquired for thee.

Zat.
(rising half from his seat in great passion).
O faithless, faithless woman! she it was,
Who made of me the cursed thing I am!
I've been a fool indeed and well requited.
Base, avaricious, and ungrateful—oh!

[Putting his hand on his side, as if seized with sudden pain.
Countess.
Such agitation suits not with thy state:
What ails thee now?

Zat.
The pain, the pain! it has return'd again
With increased violence.

Countess.
God send thee ease! why dost thou look so wildly,
And grasp my hand so hard? What is't disturts thee?

Zat.
My time on earth is short.

Countess.
Nay, say not so: thou mayst recorer still.
O why this seeming agony of mind?
'Tis not the pain that racks thee.

Zat.
There's blood upon my head: I am accursed.

Countess.
Good heaven forefend! thou wand'rest? in thy speech.
Thy life I know is forfeit to the law
By some unlawful act, but oh no blood!

Zat.
O for a short respite! but 'twill not be:
I feel my time is near.

Countess.
Thou wand'rest much: there's something on thy mind,
Dark'ning thy fancy.

Zat.
'Twas I that did it—I that murder'd him:
He who must suffer for it did it not.

Countess.
What words are these? my blood rans cold to hear them.

Zat.
(alarmed).
Be still, be still! there's some one at the door:
All round me is exposed and insecure.

[Countess Zaterloo goes to the door and receives something from a servant, shutting the door immediately.
Countess.
It is a servant come to fetch me something.

Zat.
Has he not heard it? he has heard it all!

[In violent alarm and agitation.
Countess.
Be still, be still! it is impossible.
Thou'st waked the pain again; I see thee tremble.

Zat.
(writhing as if in great pain).
Ay, this will master me: 'twill have me now:
What can be done? O for a short reprieve!

Countess.
Alas, my child! what wouldst thou have me do?

Zat.
I would have time turn'd backward in its course,
And what is past ne'er to have been: myself
A thing that no existence ever had.
Canst thou do this for me?

Countess.
Alas! I cannot.

Zat.
Then cursed be thy early mother's cares!
Would thou hadst lifted up my infant form
And dash'd it on the stones! I had not lived—
I had not lived to curse thee for thy pains.

Countess.
And dost thou curse me then?

Zat.
(softened).
O no! I do not!
I did not curse thee, mother: was it so?

Countess.
No, no, thou didst not: yet I have deserved—
I was a mother selfish in my fondness;
And with indulgence, senseless and extreme,
Blasted the goodly promise of thy youth.

Zat.
(rising half up alarmed from his couch).
Hark! there's a noise again! hast thou more servants
Coming with errands to thee?—We're discover'd!

Countess.
Be not so soon alarm'd: it is impossible.

Zat.
Is there an inner chamber? lead me there;
[Pointing to a door.
I cannot rest in this.
[Stopping short eagerly as she is leading him out with great difficulty.
—Thine absence haply
From thine own house, suspicion may create:
Return to it again, and through the day
Live there as thou art wont; by fall of eve
Thou'lt come to me again.—I'm very weak;
I must lean hard upon thee.

[Exit, looking suspiciously behind him as if he heard a noise, and supported with great difficulty by his mother.

SCENE III.

The Countess Zaterloo's house. Enter Countess and a female attendant.
Att.
Ah! wherefore, madam, are you thus disturb'd
Pacing from room to room with restless change,
And turning still a keen and anxious ear
To every noise? What can I do for you?

Countess.
Cease, cease! thou canst do nothing, my good girl:
I have a cause, but do not seek to know it.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
There is a stranger—

Countess
(starting with alarm).
Ha! what dost thou say?
A stranger! what appearance does he wear?
Is there but one? Looks he suspiciously?

Serv.
Be not alarmed, madam; 'tis a woman.

Countess
(feigning composure).
Thou art a fool to think I am alarm'd:
Or man or woman, whosoe'er it be,
I am unwell, and must not be disturb'd.

Serv.
It is a lady of distinguish'd mien,
Though much in grief, and she so earnestly
Pleads for admittance that I am compell'd—
Pardon me, madam; but to look upon her
Would move your heart to pity.

Countess.
Let her enter.
[Exit servant.
Who may this be? why do I tremble thus?
In grief!—the wretched surely will not come
In guileful seeming to betray the wretched.
(To attendant.)
Knowst thou who this may be?

Att.
Indeed I do not.

Countess.
Retire then to a distance: here she comes:
But do not leave the chamber.

[Attendant retires to the bottom of the stage, and enter Elizabeth with her hair and dress disordered, like one distracted with grief.
Eliz.
Madam, I come a stranger to your presence,
By misery embolden'd, and urged on
By desperation. In your pity only
Lives all the hope of my most wretched state:
O kill it not! push me not to the brink
Of misery so deep and terrible!
Have pity! O have pity on my woe!
Thou art a woman, and a woman's heart
Will not be shut against a wretched woman.

Countess.
What wouldst thou ask? thou dost with too much grief
Conceal the point and object of thy suit.

Eliz.
There is in prison bound, condemn'd to die,
And for a crime by other hands committed,
A noble youth, and my betrothed love:
Your son—O shrink not back, nor look so sternly!
Your son, as secret rumour hath inform'd me,
Mortally wounded and with little hope
Of life, can ample testimony give,
Being himself of those who did the deed,
That Rayner did it not:—O let him then,
In whate'er secret place he lies conceal'd,
In pity let him true confession make;
And we will bless him—Heav'n will pardon him!

Countess.
Despair hath made thee mad! art thou aware
What thou dost ask of me? Go to our governors;
They may have pity on thee; but from me
It were an act against the sense of nature.

Eliz.
Nay, say not so! I have for mercy sued
At the proud feet of power, and been rejected:
What injury can reach a dying man?
Can his few hours of breathing poise the scales
'Gainst the whole term of a man's reckon'd life
In youth's best strength?

Countess.
Go, thou hast been deceived with a false tale:
And, were it true, hope ends not but with life;
Heav'n only knows who is a dying man.

Eliz.
For blessed charity close not your pity
Against all other feelings but your own!
[Clasping the countess's knees and kissing her hand.
Sweet lady! gentle lady! dearest lady!
O be not ruthless to a soul bow'd down
In extreme wretchedness!

Countess.
Cease, cease! unlock thy hold: embrace me not!
Has he for whom thou pleadst from out o' thyself
Received his being? press'd with infant lips
Thy yearning bosom? smiled upon thy knees,
And bless'd thine ear with his first voice of words?
Away, away! despair has made thee mad,
That thus thou hangst upon me.

Eliz.
O he for whom I plead is to my soul
Its soul: is to my fancy its bound world,
In which it lives and moves; all else beyond
Darkness, annihilation. O have pity!
For well thou sayst, despair has made me mad.

Countess.
Let go, let go! thou with a tigress strivest,
Defending her bay'd whelp: I have no pity.
Heav'n will have pity on thee! let me go;
Unlock thy desp'rate hold!

[Breaks from her and runs out, and Elizabeth, quite overcome, sinks upon the ground, the attendant rushing forward from the bottom of the stage to support her.
Enter Father Mardonio.
Mar.
(raising her).
My daughter, heaven will send in its good time
The aid that is appointed for thy state.
Contend no more, but to its righteous will
Submit thyself. Let me conduct thee hence.

[Exeunt, Mardonio and attendant supporting her. Re-enter the countess, looking fearfully round her as she enters.
Countess.
She is gone now: thank God that she is gone!
There is a horrid conflict in my mind.
What shall I do? I strongly am beset.
I will go quickly to some holy man,
And ghostly counsel ask.

[Exit, crossing the stage with a quick, irresolute step, sometimes stopping to consider, and then hurrying on again.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A spacious outer room in the prison. Enter an Under-Gaoler and a Clown.
Clown.

I pray thee now, my good friend, here is a piece of money for thee—very good money too; thou mayst look o' both sides of it an' thou wilt: it has been wrapped up in the foot of my old holiday stockings since last Michaelmas twelvemonth, and neither sun nor wind has blown upon it. Take it, man, thou art heartily welcome to it if thou canst put me into a good place near the scaffold; or a place where I may see him upon the scaffold; for I am five-and-thirty years old next Shrove Tuesday when the time comes round, and I have never yet seen in all my born days so much as a thief set i' the stocks.

Gaoler.

Poor man! thou hast lived in most deplorable ignorance indeed. But stand aside a little, here is the famous executioner of Olmutz acoming, who has been sent for expressly to do the job; for our own is but a titulary hangman; he has all the honours of the office, but little experience in the duties of it.

Clown.

O dickens, I'll creep into a corner then, and have a good look of him. A man that has cut off men's heads, save us all! he must have a strange bloody look about him for certain.

Enter two Executioners, speaking as they enter.
1st ex.

What! no execution in this town for these ten years past? Lord pity you all for a set of poor devils indeed! Why, I have known a smaller town than this keep ye up a first executioner for the capital business, with a second man under him for your petty cart-tail and pillory work; ay, and keep them handsomely employed too. No execution in such a town as this for these ten years past! One might as well live amongst the savages.

2d ex.

It is a pitiful thing to be sure, but don't despise us altogether, Mr. Master: we shall improve by-and-bye; and here is a fair beginning for it too, if heaven prosper us.

1st ex.

Ay, thou wilt, perhaps, have the honour of hanging a thief or two before thou art the age of Methuselah; but I warrant ye, the beheading of this young nobleman here by the famous executioner of Olmutz will be remembered amongst you for generations to come. It will be the grand date from which every thing will be reckoned; ay, your very grandchildren will boast that their fathers were present at the sight.

2d ex.

I make no doubt on't, my master, but you are a very capital man in your way: heaven forbid that I should envy the greatness of any one; but I would have you to know that there have been

others in the world as good as yourself ere now. My own father cut off Baron Koslam's head upon this very scaffold that we now hear them hammering at.

1st ex.

Some wandering hocus-pocus baron, I suppose, that sold nostrums for the toothache. I always put such fellows into the hands of my underling to operate upon; I never count the dealing with them as your prime work, though for certain we must call it your head work; ha! ha! ha! (Holding out his axe in a vain-glorious manner.)
Seest thou this axe of mine? The best blood of the country has been upon its edge. To have had one's father or brother under its stroke, let me tell thee, is equal to a patent of nobility.

2d ex.

Well, be it so. I envy no man, though thou art set over my head upon this occasion. I have whipped, branded, and pilloried in great meekness and humility for these seven years past; but the humble shall be exalted at last, and I shall have better work to do by-and-bye. Let us have no more contention about it.—Who's there? (Observing gaoler and clown.)
Ay, gaoler, do thou go and kick up the black prince, he is snoring in some corner near us, and send him for some brandy.

[Gaoler coming forward, with the clown creeping after him, half afraid.
Gaoler.

The black prince is nowhere to be found; he has not been seen since the cells were locked.

2d ex.

Go fetch us some liquor thyself then.

1st ex.

But who is this sneaking behind thee, and afraid to show his face?

Gaoler.

Only a poor countryman, a friend of mine, who wanted to look at you as you passed.

1st ex.

Yes, yes, everybody has a curiosity to look at extraordinary persons. (To clown.)
Come forward, man, and don't be afraid. Didst thou ever before see any thing better than a poor parish priest, or a scrubby lord of the village? didst thou, eh?

Clown

(abashed).
I don't know, please you: my brother did once stand within a team's length of the Prince of Carrara, when he passed through our village on his way to Franconia.

1st ex.

So then thou art not the first of thy family that has seen a great man. But don't be afraid, my good fellow, I a'n't proud nor haughty as many of them be: thou shalt even shake hands with me an' thou wilt.

[Holding out his hand to clown, who shrinks from him, and puts his hands behind his back.
Clown.

No, I thank you; I ben't much of a hand-shaker: I have got a little sore on my thumb, may it please you: I thank you all the same as though I did.

1st ex.

Ay, thou art too mannerly to call it the thing that we wot of. Well, thou art a good sort of fellow; don't be abashed: thou seest I am very condescending to thee. Come, then, thou shalt drink a cup of liquor with me. Follow us into the next ward, my good friend.

Clown

(shrinking from him again).
O na, save your presence! I'll go with the gaoler here.

1st ex.

(to 2d executioner).
Ay, he is but a poor bashful clown, and don't know how to behave himself in good company. [Exeunt executioners.

Clown.

Shake hands with him, Mary preserve us! it sets the very ends of my fingers a-dingling. Drink out of the same mug with him, too! (sputtering with his lips)
poh! poh! poh! the taste of raw heads and carrion is on my lips at the thoughts of it. (To gaoler.)
Come, let us go out of this place; I be long enough here. (Stepping short as he goes off.)
What noise and hammering is this we hear?

Gaoler.

It is the workmen putting up the scaffold.

Clown

(starting).
What, are we so near to it? mercy on us! let me get out of this place, for it puts me into a terrible quandary.

Gaoler.

If this be the mettle thou art made of, thou hadst better take thy money again, and I'll give thy place for the sight to somebody that has got a stouter heart than thou hast.

Clown.

Na, na, I won't do that neither; I have a huge desire to see how a man looks when he is going to have his head cut off, and I'll stay for the sight, though I should swoon for it. Poor man! poor man! what frightful things there be in this world, when one's mind sets a-thinking upon it!—Is he a tall man, now (to gaoler)
, or a short man? a palefaced man, or—ay, pale enough, I warrant. Mercy on us! I shall think of him many a night after this, before I go to sleep. Poor man! poor man! what terrible things there be in this world, if a body does but think of them.

[Exeunt clown and gaoler.

SCENE II.

A dungeon; Rayner discovered sitting at a table by the light of a lamp, with a book in his hand; the clock from a neighbouring steeple strikes three, and he, roused by the sound, lays down the book.
Ray.
This bell speaks with a deep and sullen voice:
The time comes on apace with silent speed.
Is it indeed so late?
[Looking at his watch.
It is even so.
[Pausing, and looking still at the watch.
How soon time flies away! yet, as I watch it,
Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand,
I should have lived an age since yesterday,
And have an age to live. Still on it creeps,
Each little moment at another's heels,
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up
Of such small parts as these, and men look back,
Worn and bewilder'd, wond'ring how it is.
Thou trav'llest like a ship in the wide ocean,
Which hath no bounding shore to mark its progress,
O Time! ere long I shall have done with thee.
When next thou leadest on thy nightly shades,
Though many a weary heart thy steps may count,
Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me.
Then shall I be a thing, at thought of which
The roused soul swells boundless and sublime,
Or wheels in wildness of unfathom'd fears:
A thought; a consciousness; unbodied spirit.
Who but would shrink from this? It goes hard with thee,
Social connected man; it goes hard with thee
To be turn'd out into a state unknown,
From all thy kind, an individual being.
But wherefore shrink? came we not thus to earth?
And He who sent, prepared reception for us.
Ay, glorious are the things that are prepared,
As we believe!—yet, heaven pardon me!
I fain would skulk beneath my wonted cov'ring,
Mean as it is.
Ah, Time! when next thou fillst thy nightly term,
Where shall I be? Fy! fy upon thee still!
E'en where weak infancy, and tim'rous age,
And maiden fearfulness have gone before thee;
And where, as well as he of firmest soul,
The meanly-minded and the coward are.
Then trust thy nature, at th'approaching push,
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants,
And can bear all things.
[Rising from his seat, and walking several times backward and forward.
I know not how it is, I'm wondrous heavy;
Fain would I rest awhile. This weary frame
Has but a little more to do for me,
And yet it asks for rest. I'll lay me down:
It may be possible that I shall sleep,
After these weary tossings of the mind;
I feel as though I should.

[Goes to sleep, covering himself with a cloak.
Enter Ohio, creeping out from a hiding-place at the bottom of the stage, and going softly up to Rayner, looks for some time upon him with a malicious grin.
Ohio.
Thou hast loved negroes' blood, I warrant thee.
Dost sleep? ay, they will waken thee ere long,
And cut thy head off. They'll put thee to rest;
They'll close thine eyes for thee without thy leave;
They'll bloat thy white skin for thee, lily-face.
Come, less harm will I do thee than thy fellows:
My sides are cold: a dead man needs no cloak.

[Beginning gently to pull off Rayner's cloak, who starts from his sleep, and looks at him in amazement.
Ray.
Ha! what hole of the earth hath cast thee up?
What thing art thou? and what wouldst thou with me?

Ohio.
My sides are cold; a dead man needs no cloak.

Ray.
'Tis true indeed, but do not strip the living.
Where dost thou run to now? where wast thou hid?

Ohio
(after running to his hiding-place, and fetching out a stick, which he presents to Rayner).
Beat me thyself, but do not tell of me.

Ray.
I would not harm thee for a greater fault.
I'm sorry thou art cold; here is my cloak:
Thou hast said well; a dead man needs it not.
I know thee now; thou art the wretched negro
Who serves the prisoners; I have observ'd thee:
I'm sorry for thee; thou art bare enough,
And winter is at hand.

Ohio.
Ha! art thou sorry that the negro's cold?
Where wast thou born who art so pitiful?
I will not take thy cloak, but I will love thee.
They shall not cut thy head off.

Ray.
Go thy ways;
Go skulk within thy hiding-place again,
And, when the cell is open'd, save thyself.

Ohio.
They sha'n't cut off thy head.

Ray.
Now, pray thee go.

Ohio.
I'll kiss thy feet; I'll spend my blood for thee.

Ray.
I do beseech thee go! there's some one coming:
I hear them at the door.

[Pushes him hastily off.
Enter Hardibrand, advancing slowly to Rayner, his eyes cast upon the ground.
Ray.
Good morrow, general: where's thy friendly hand?
Why dost thou turn thine eyes aside, and fear
To look me in the face? Is there upon it
Aught that betrays the workings of the mind
Too strongly mark'd? I will confess to thee
I've struggled hard, I've felt the fears of nature;
But yet I have the spirit of a man
That will uphold me: therefore, my brave friend,
Do me the grace to look upon me boldly;
I'll not disgrace thee.

Har.
No, my valiant boy!
I know thou'lt not disgrace me, nor will I
Put shame on thee by wearing on this morn
A weeping face: I will be valiant too.
We will not, Rayner, though thou'rt thus—Oh! oh!

[Bursting into tears.
Ray.
My gen'rous friend, my second father, why
Wilt thou oppress me thus?

Har.
Bear with me, bear with me; I meant to brave it,
And I will brave it. But to thee, my son,
In thy distress, encompass'd as thou art,
My heart so strongly has enlink'd itself,
That to part from thee, boy, is—

[Falling on his neck, and bursting again into tears.
Enter Mardonio.
Mar.
(after looking at them for some time, and in a solemn imposing tone of voice).
The strength of man sinks in the hour of trial;
But there doth live a pow'r that to the battle
Girdeth the weak: heaven's vivifying grace,
And strength, and holy confidence be thine,
Who art in mercy stricken!

[Holding up his right hand to heaven, whilst
Rayner, approaching with reverence, bows himself beneath it very low.
Ray.
Thanks to thee, father! these are words of power,
And I do feel their strength. Beneath that hand,
Which hath in mercy stricken me, I bow;
Yea bow, the nobler and the bolder grown
For such humility.—(Familiarly.)
How goes the time?
Does day begin to dawn?

Mar.
Grey light peeps faintly o'er the eastern towers.

Ray.
The time is then advanced; we'll husband it.
Come close to me, my friends.
[Taking Hardibrand and Mardonio each by the hand, and pressing them close to his breast.
Of worldly cares, upon my mind there rest
But only those which I have mention'd to you.
Yet, in this solemn hour, let me remind you:—
My poor Elizabeth—

Har.
(eagerly).
Thou'st said enough:
She is my child and heiress of my lands
To the last rood.—Ah! what avails it now!

Ray.
How shall a dying man find thanks for this,
Whose day is closed? I will attempt no thanks.
The other wish that closely presses on me:—
Mardonio, upon thee must hang this boon:—
That miserable man of whom I've told you;
Now living in the hell of his remorse,
Cut off from human intercourse; whose vision
Of midnight horrors saved this hand from blood:
I fain—

Har.
(again eagerly interrupting him).
Fear not! fear not! he shall be saved;
And shall with human beings yet consort
In blessed charity, if ghostly care
From holiest men procured, or off'rings made
To ev'ry sacred shrine on christian ground
Can give him peace.

Ray.
(smiling and pressing Hardibrand to his bosom).
With all the prompt and gen'rous profusion
Of eager youth dost thou, mine aged friend,
Take every thing upon thee. Be it so.
And good Mardonio with his sober counsel
Will aid thy bounty. Here I join your hands:
My worldly cares are closed.

Enter
Elizabeth, followed by Richard and Bertram, who remain on the background whilst she comes slowly forward; Rayner turning round on hearing them enter.
Ah! who is this?
Alas! alas! it is Elizabeth.
[Holding out his hand to her.
Advance, my love; thou'rt ever welcome here.
How does it fare with thee?

Eliz.
It is all mist and darkness with me now;
I know not how it fares with me.

Ray.
Alas!
Thou gentle soul! a dark cloud o'er thee hangs,
But through the gloom the sun again will break,
And, in the soberness of calm remembrance,
Thou wilt look back upon misfortunes past
Like tempests that are laid. Thou dost not heed me:
Thou dost not speak to me. Alas! Alas!
What shall I say to thee?
I've loved thee well, and would have loved thee long,
Had it so been—but thou shalt be beloved!
Heav'n will take charge of thee when I'm at rest:
The kindly and the good shall be thy kindred,
[Putting her hand in Hardibrand's.
And ev'ry sorrowful and gentle heart
Shall knit itself to thee, and call thee sister.
[Elizabeth makes a motion with her hand as if she would speak, and he pauses, but she is silent.
What meant, my love, that motion of thy hand?

Mar.
She fain would speak to thee, but has no voice.

Ray.
I know it well, Elizabeth; no voice
Needst thou to tell me how thou'st dearly loved me,
And dearly do I prize it; 'tis my pride;
E'en humbled as I am, it is my pride.
Heav'n's dearest blessings rest upon thy head!—
And now, since we must part, do in thy love,
Do for me this last grace; bid me farewell,
And let my earthly sorrows now be closed.
Heav'n's blessing rest upon thee!

[He kisses her, and she turns to go away, Rayner looking after her as she goes, but presently returns again.
Ray.
Thou art return'd, my soul, what wouldst thou have?

Eliz.
(in a broken voice).
A thought—a wish did press upon my heart,
But it is gone.

Ray.
I thank thee for thy wish;
It is a good one, though thou canst not speak it,
And it will do me good. But leave me! leave me!
Thou wilt unfit me for a task of strength.
[Elizabeth again attempts to go away, but still returns.
Ah, wherefore still! wilt thou be cruel to me?

Eliz.
O, no! O, no! I know not what I do:
It is all mist and darkness with me now:
I look upon thee, but I see thee not.
Let me once more but feel thy hand in mine
And send me where ye will: my being then
Is at an end.

[They embrace again, and she still continues to hang upon him.
Ray.
(to Bertram and Richard).
O, lead her hence, and have some mercy on me!
My father died i' the field a valiant death,
And shall his son upon the scaffold die
O'ercome and weak, reft of that decent firmness
Which e'en the base and vulgar there assume?
O lead her hence! in mercy lead her hence!

[Bertram and Richard tear her from him, and lead her away, whilst he turns his back, and hides his face with his hands.
Eliz.
(stopping short, and tossing up her arms distractedly as they are leading her out).
Reprieve, reprieve! I hear a voice i' the air!
I hear it yet again!

Ray.
(uncovering his face, and looking about eagerly, whilst Hardibrand rushes forward impetuously from the bottom of the stage, where he has been pacing backward and forward with hasty strides).
Is't any thing?

Mar.
Alas, no! all is silent: 'tis the fancy
Of fond distraction list'ning to itself.

Har.
Nay, it was something: Bertram, thou didst hear it?

Ber.
No, I heard nothing.

Har.
What, nor thou, good Richard?

Rich.
No, nothing.

Eliz.
(holding up her arm distractedly as Richard and Bertram lead her off).
And is it nothing? no redemption near!

[Exeunt Elizabeth, Richard, and Bertram, whilst Rayner, uttering a deep groan, hides his face, and Hardibrand returns with hasty strides to the bottom of the stage.
Ray.
(uncovering his face).
Is she gone now?

Mar.
She is.

Ray.
Thank God for it! Now to our task:
[Stepping forward with assumed firmness.
What of it now remains we shall o'er-master.
Pray thee how goes the time? But pardon me!
I have too oft inquired how goes the time:
It is my weakness.

Mar.
The morning now advances.

Ray.
So I reckon'd.
We too shall put ourselves in forwardness:
And so, good father, to your ghostly guidance
I do commend myself.

Enter Gaoler.
Gaoler.
The officers of justice are arrived,
And wait the presence of the prisoner.

Ray.
They come upon us sooner than we wist;
But 'tis so much the better.
(To Mardonio, aside.)
Shall we have time allow'd us for retirement,
Before they lead me forth?

Mar.
'Tis ever so allow'd.

Ray.
Come then, I feel me stronger than I was:
'Twill soon be past; the work goes on apace.
[Taking hold of Hardibrand and Mardonio as he goes out.
Your arm, I pray:—I know not how it is;
My head feels dizzy, but my limbs are firm.
Good Hardibrand, thinkst thou I shall disgrace thee?

Har.
No, by the mass! I'll give them this old carcase
To hack for crow's meat if thou shrinkst one hair's breadth
From the comportment of a gallant soldier,
And of a brave man's son.

Ray.
(smiling with a gratified look).
I thank thee.
Methinks I tread now, as I onward move,
With more elastic and dilating step,
As if a spirit of pride within me stirr'd
Buoying me up on the swoln billow's ridge.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An outer garden-room or portico in the house where
Zaterloo is concealed. Enter Countess and a confessor, with two attendants bearing Zaterloo on a small couch, which they set down on the middle of the stage; the attendants retire.
Countess.
The air revives him: look, I pray thee, father,
How the fresh air revives him: say not then
All hope is banish'd quite.—Thou shak'st thy head:
But whilst I see upon his moving breast
One heave of breath, betok'ning life within,
I'll grasp at hope, and will not let it go.
(Bending over the couch.)
My son, my son! hearst thou my voice, my son?

Zat.
Yes, mother: I have had a fearful struggle.
'Tis a strong enemy that grapples with me,
And I must yield to him.—O pious father!
Pray thou for mercy on me.

Countess.
Yes, my son,
This holy man shall pray for thee; the shrines
Of holiest saints be gifted for thee; masses
And sacred hymns be chanted for thy peace:—
And thou thyself, even 'midst thine agony,
Hast spoken precious words of heav'nly grace;
Therefore be comforted.

Zat.
(shaking his head).
There is no comfort here: dark, veil'd, and terrible,
That which abides me; and how short a space—

Countess.
O thou mayst yet recover!

Con.
Lady, forbear! this is no time to soothe
With flatt'ring hopes: his term is near its close;
Therefore, I do again entreat it of you,
Sond off the messenger with his confession,
Lest it should be too late to save the innocent,
And he be sent unto his long account
With a most heavy charge upon his head.

Countess.
Thou mak'st me tremble.—Ho! There, you without!
Send here the messenger.
(Calling off the stage.)
—His steed is ready:
He shall forthwith depart.

Enter Messenger.
Con.
(to messenger).
Take thou this packet, and with full-bent speed
Go to the city to the governor,
And see that into his own hand thou give it,
With charges that he read it instantly.
It is of precious moment to his life
Who on the scaffold should this morning suffer.
Quick mount thy horse: few minutes' goaded speed
Will take thee to the gates.

Mes.
Few minutes' goaded speed, five leagues to master!

Con.
Five leagues! thou'rt mad.

Mes.
No, marry! know ye not
The flooded river hath last night broken down
The nearer bridge?

Con.
What, art thou sure of this?

Mes.
I am now come from gazing on the sight.
From bank to bank the red swoln river roars;
And on the deep and slowly-rolling mass
Of its strong centre-tide, grumly and dark,
The wrecks of cottages, whole ricks of grain,
Trunks of huge trees, torn by the roots,—ay, save us!
And floating carcases of perish'd things,
Bloated and black, are borne along; whilst currents
Cross-set and furious, meeting adverse streams
On rude uneven surface, far beyond
The water's natural bed, do loudly war
And terrible contest hold; and swelt'ring eddies
With dizzy whirling fury, toss aloft
Their surgy waves i' the air, and scatter round
Their ceaseless bick'ring gleams of jagged foam,
All fiercely whit'ning in the morning light.
Crowds now are standing upon either shore
In awful silence; not a sound is heard
But the flood's awful voice, and from the city
A dismal bell heard through the air by starts,
Already tolling for the execution.

Con.
What's to be done? fate seems to war against us.
No, no! we'll not despair! Mount thy fleet horse,
Life and death's in thy speed:—
Let nought one moment stop thee on thy way:
All things are possible to vig'rous zeal:
Life and death's in thy speed: depart! depart!
And heaven be with thine efforts.

[Exit messenger, after receiving the packet.
Zat.
Is he gone? is it done?

Con.
Yes, he is gone: God grant he be in time,
For unto human reck'ning 'tis impossible!
[To countess, with an upbraiding look.
Half an hour sooner—

Countess.
Oh, torment me not!
Who could foresee this hind'rance?—O, good father!
Look to thy penitent. Upon his count'nance
There's something new and terrible. Speak to him:
Go close to him, good father. O my son!

Zat.
I feel within me now—this is the feeling:
I am upon the brink, the dreadful brink:
It is a fearful gulf I have to shoot.
O yet support me! in this racking pain
I still may hold a space the grasp of life,
And keep back from the dark and horrid—Oh!
(Uttering a deep groan.)
It is upon me!

[Struggles and expires with a faint groan. Countess, wringing her hands in agony of grief, is hurried off the stage by the Confessor and attendants, who rush in and take hold of her.

SCENE IV.

An open square before the great gate of the prison: a crowd of spectators, with guards, &c., are discovered, waiting for the coming forth of Rayner to his execution, and a solemn bell is heard at intervals. The gate opens, and enter Rayner walking between Mardonio and Hardibrand, and followed by Richard and Bertram, preceded and followed by guards, officers, &c. The procession moves slowly over the stage, and exeunt, followed by the greater part of the crowd, though a good many of them still remain upon the stage. Then re-enter Hardibrand and Richard, followed by one or two of the crowd: Hardibrand walking up and down in a perturbed manner, and Richard leaning his back against the side-scene, where he continues motionless with his eyes fixed on the ground. The murmur of the multitude is heard for some time without, and then ceases, followed by a dead silence.
1st crowd.

The sound of the multitude is still now.

2d crowd

(looking out).
I fancy, by the crowd who stand all gathered round yonder in dead silence, he is now preparing for the block.

3d crowd.

It must be so: mercy on us, what a mantle of human faces there be spread round on every side, and not one sound of voice amongst them all!

Har.

(starting and stopping suddenly, to 1st crowd). A long pause.
Didst thou hear aught?

1st crowd.

No, they are still silent.

Har.

Look out, I pray thee, and tell me what thou seest. What dost thou gaze at with so broad an eye? 1st crowd looks out.

1st crowd.

The executioner is now mounted upon the platform, and the prisoner—O! I cannot look any more!

[A loud confused noise is heard without.
Har.

What's that?

2d crowd.

It is like the cry of a great multitude, when they look upon something that is terrible.

1st crowd.

Then the stroke is given, and it is all over now.

[Hardibrand turns hastily away, and rushes to the other end of the stage, whilst Richard gives a heavy groan, and still remains motionless. A shout is heard without.
Har.

(returning furiously from the bottom of the stage).
More of that horrible din!— May they bring down the welkin on their heads!

2d crowd

(to 1st crowd).
What art thou looking at now?

1st crowd.

Nay, there is nothing to look at now: the platform is down, and the crowd is returning home again.

Enter Ohio, running across the stage.
Ohio.

I've done it! I've done it! I've done it!

[Exit.
Enter a messenger in great haste, followed by a civil Officer.
1st crowd.
Where are you running to so fast?

Mes.
Is the execution over?

1st crowd.
Yes, it is over.

Mes.
Ah! then I am too late.

1st crowd.
What mean ye by that?

Mes.
I brought a pardon for him.

Har.
(rushing upon the messenger and collaring him).
A pardon! O confound your tardy speed!
Had you upon some paltry wager striv'n,
You had run faster. O, thou cursed fool!
O hadst thou sped, I'd make a rich man of thee!

Mes.
(disentangling himself).
My steed and I across the high-swoln flood,
Those on the shore shrieking to see our boldness,
Have fearless swum some miles short of the pass
Which we must else have gain'd, or, by my faith,
I had been later.

Har.
Thou liest, thou cursed fool! thou shouldst have sped
Swift as a bullet from the cannon's mouth.

[Collaring him again.
Enter Rayner, Mardonio, Bertram, and crowd.
Mar.
(to Hardibrand, pulling him back from the messenger).
Hold, general! what hath the poor man done?

Har.
What has he done! he's brought a pardon, fiend!
[The crowd give a great shout, crying out “Pardon, pardon,” and Hardibrand, turning round at the noise, and seeing Rayner, springs forward, and catches him in his arms.
God bless us all, and let us keep our wits!
Is this true seeing that my eyes are blest with?
O welcome, welcome! this is wonderful!
My boy! my noble boy! my gallant boy!
Thou art a man again, and I—I'm mad:
My head wheels round, but 'tis a blessed madness.
What sayst thou? art thou silent?
Hast no voice?

Ray.
To be upon the verge of death is awful;
And awful from that verge to be recall'd.
God bless you! O God bless you! I am spent;
But let me draw my breath a little while,
And I will thank you—I will—Bear with me:
I cannot speak.
[Recovering himself, and seeing the crowd gather round him with joyful and sympathising looks.
Surely 'tis a kind world I have return'd to;
There's sympathy and love in ev'ry heart.

Mar.
(to messenger).
Where is the pardon? let me have it, friend,
That I may read it.
[Messenger gives him a paper, which he reads.
We charge thee upon our authority to set the—
[Reading the rest low to himself.
What! call ye this a pardon which acquits
The prisoner as guiltless of the crime?
May God be praised! how has all this been?

Mess.
Count Zaterloo, who on his death-bed lies,
In deep remorse, a paper of confession,
Attested by a priest and his own mother,
Caused to be drawn, which to the governor
I've brought, I wot, as quickly as I might,
Though (pointing to Hardibrand)
this good gentleman—

Har.
(embracing the messenger).
O no! O no! thou'rt a brave fellow now,
And, as I've said, I'll make a rich man of thee.
But I'm bewilder'd still: how hath it been
That he is saved, seeing no pardon reach'd him?

Mar.
Yes, thou mayst wonder! for some unknown friend
Had sawn across the main prop of the scaffold,
So that the headsman mounting first, the platform
Fell with a crash; and he, all maim'd and bruised,
Unfit to do his office, was perforce—

Har.
Ay, ay, 'tis plain, thou needst not tell me more.—
But he, the unknown friend—

Enter Ohio, running exultingly.
Ohio.
'Twas I that did it!
Beat me and scourge me as ye list: I did it!
He offer'd me his cloak: he pitied me;
And I have paid him back.

Har.
Ha! well done and well said, my brave black thing!
Art thou a prince? in faith I think thou art.
I'll take thee home, and make a man of thee.
No, no!
(Pointing to Rayner.)
Here is my son, my heir, my child:
All that I have is his: he will reward thee.
Thou hast a gen'rous mind, although debased
With vile oppression and unmanly scorn.

Ray.
(taking Ohio and Hardibrand both by the hand).
What shall I say to you? my heart would speak
What my voice cannot. O! and here comes one
Who mocks all power of words.

[Enter Elizabeth running, and rushes into Rayner's arms; the crowd then eagerly gathers round them, and closes upon them.
Mar.
(stepping out from the crowd, and looking upon them).
Yes, gather round him, kindly souls, though rude,
In the true artless sympathy of nature;
For he is one o'er whom the storm has roll'd
In awful power, but spared the thunderbolt.—
When urged by strong temptation to the brink
Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind
With scarce a step between; all pitying heaven,
Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love,
Ofttimes, in dark and awful visitation,
Doth interpose, and leads the wand'rer back
To the straight path, to be for ever after
A firm, undaunted, onward-bearing traveller
Strong in humility, who swerves no more.

[Exeunt.

CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS;

OR, THE LAST OF THE CÆSARS:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Constantine Paleologus, emperor of the Greeks.
• Mahomet, the Turkish Sultan.
• Othus, a learned Greek, Friends of Constantine, and belonging to his brave band of volunteers.
• Rodrigo, a Genoese naval commander, Friends of Constantine, and belonging to his brave band of volunteers.
• Justiniani, a noble Genoese, and a soldier, Friends of Constantine, and belonging to his brave band of volunteers.
• Petronius, Greeks, and secret agents of Mahomet.
• Marthon, Greeks, and secret agents of Mahomet.
• Osmir, vizir to Mahomet.
• Heugho, an old domestic officer of Constantine.
• Othoric, a rude but generous adventurer.
• Fortune-teller, citizens, attendants, &c.

WOMEN

• Valeria, wife of Constantine.
• Ella, daughter of Petronius.
• Lucia, a lady attendant on Valeria.
• Ladies and attendants.

The Scene in Constantinople, and in the camp of Mahomet, near the city.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A large platform on the roof of the palace of Petronius, from which are seen spires and towers, and the broken roofs of houses, &c., with the general appearance of a ruined city, the distant parts involved in smoke. Ella is discovered with an attendant, standing on a balcony belonging to a small tower, rising from the side of the platform. As the curtain draws up the sound of artillery is heard.
Enter Othus and Marthon.
Othus.
Ah, see how sadly changed the prospect is
Since first from our high station we beheld
This dismal siege begin! 'Midst level ruin,
Our city now shows but its batter'd towers,
Like the jagg'd bones of some huge animal,
Whose other parts the mould'ring hand of time
To dust resolves.

Mar.
(coldly).
It does indeed some faint resemblance hold
To what thou hast compared it to. How is't?
Art thou not from the walls?

Othus.
No, not immediately.

Mar.
Wast thou not there when Mahomet's huge cannon
Open'd its brazen mouth and spoke to us?
How brook'd thine ears that deep tremendous sound?
The coasts of Asia and th' Olympian heights,
Our land-begirded seas, and distant isles,
Spoke back to him again, in his own voice,
A deep and surly answer; but our city,
This last imperial seat of Roman greatness:
This head of the world, this superb successor
Of the earth's mistress, where so many Cæsars
In proud successive lines have held their sway,
What answer sent she back?

Othus.
Fy, hold thy tongue!
Methinks thou hast a pleasure in the thought.
This head o' the world—this superb successor
Of the earth's mistress, as thou vainly speakst,
Stands 'mid these ages, as in the wide ocean
The last spared fragment of a spacious land,
That in some grand and awful ministration
Of mighty nature has ingulfed been,
Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs
O'er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns
In lonely majesty. But shame upon it!
Her feeble, worthless, and degen'rate sons—

Mar.
Yes, what sayst thou of them? they also are
The fragments of a brave and mighty race,
Left on this lonely rock.

Othus.
No, blast them! on its frowning sides they cluster
Like silly sea-fowl from their burrow'd holes,
Who, staring senseless on th' invader's toil,
Stretch out their worthless necks, and cry “caw! caw!”
O, Paleologus! how art thou left,
Thou and thy little band of valiant friends,
To set your manly bosoms 'gainst the tide!
Ye are the last sparks of a wasted pyre
Which soon shall be trodd'n out.—
Ye are the last green bough of an old oak,
Blasted and bare: the lovelier do ye seem
For its wan barrenness; but to its root
The axe is brought, and with it ye must fall.—
Ye are—O God! it grasps my swelling throat
To think of what ye are.

Mar.
A brave band, truly:—
But still our gallant emp'ror and his friends,
Opposed to Mah'met and his num'rous host
With all his warlike engines, are in truth
As if one toss'd against the whirl'd-up sands
Of their Arabian plains, one grasp of dust.

Othus.
Yes, they are few in number, but they are
The essence and true spirit of their kind;
The soul of thousands. A brave band they are,
Not levied by the power and wealth of states;
And the best feelings of the human heart
Have been the agents of their princely chief,
Recruiting nobly. Virtuous Sympathy,
Who on the weaker and deserted side
Her ample, lib'ral front doth ever range;
Keen Indignation, who, with clenched hand
And sternly-flashing eye, ever beholds
The high o'erbearing crest of proud oppression;
And gen'rous Admiration, above all,
Of noble deeds, whose heav'n-enlighten'd smile,
And imitative motion, ever wake
With eager heart-throbs at the glorious sight
Of manly daring, have unto their numbers
Some score of dauntless spirits lately added;
Such as would ride upon the whirlwind's back,
If it might be, and with heaven's spearmen cope.
With such a band, methinks, all things are possible.

Mar.
(smiling).
Why, thou soft man of peace,
Who in gay banquets spend'st thy giddy nights,
And o'er some sculptured stone, or ancient lore,
Each idle morning wast'st in the cool shade,
Thou speakest with a bold and warlike voice!

Othus
(throwing back his cloak, and showing under it a warlike garb, with the scarf and devices belonging to the imperial band).
Ay, and wear, too, a bold and warlike form.
Behold what now I am? Thou shrinkest back,
And lookest strangely on me: give thy lips
No friendly blessing to my new estate?

Mar.
Heaven bless the brave!

Othus.
Amen! but thou art cold.
[Sound of artillery is heard again.
O hear that sound!
Doth it not stir thee as it thund'ring growls
Along the distant shore?
[Shaking his head.
It moves thee not.
Is that the sound of female voices near us?

Mar.
Yes; seest thou not on yon high balcony
That pale and fearful maid? her watchful ear
Is ever turn'd to ev'ry distant sound.

Othus.
My gentle kinswoman upon the watch!
I know for whom she fears; nor do I marvel;
For she was present on that crowded shore,
When Genoa's captain brought his gen'rous succour,
And saw the brave contention of those men,
In their proud vessels bearing boldly on,
With wavy pendants floating on the wind,
Whose armed sides, like to a goodly bank,
Breasted the onward tide of opposition.
[Speaking with a great deal of appropriate gesture.
No wonder that her fancy has been moved!
Oh, it did stir the women on our walls—
The infants—yea, the very household curs,
That from their kennels turn'd to look upon it!—
But for that motley crowd of moving things
Which we miscall our men—Nay, by the light,
Thou too dost hear me with a frozen eye!

Enter Ella hastily from the balcony, and puts her hand eagerly upon the shoulder of Othus, who turns round surprised.
Ella.
What sayest thou of him? where fights he now?
Or on the land, or on some floating fence?

Othus.
Of whom speakst thou, fair Ella?

Ella.
Nay, nay! thou knowst right well. Did I not see thee,
High as I stood, e'en now, tossing thine arms,
And motioning thy tale with such fit gestures
As image ships and sails, and daring deeds?
Of whom speak even the beggars in our streets
When they such action use? Thou knowst right well,
Of Genoa's captain, and of none but him.
Didst see him from the walls?

Othus
(smiling).
My little kinswoman,
Thou lookest with a keen and martial eye
As thou dost question me: I saw him not;
I come not from the walls.

Ella.
Didst thou not talk of him as I descended?

Othus.
Yes, of that noble fight.—But dost thou see?
There are more warriors in the world, Ella,
[Pointing to his dress
Though men do talk of us, it must be granted,
With action more composed. Behold me now
The brave Rodrigo's comrade, and the friend
Of royal Constantine; who is in truth
The noblest beast o' the herd, and on the foe
Turns a bold front, whilst with him boldly join
A few brave antlers from a timid crowd,
That quakes and cowers behind.

Ella.
Yes, Othus, I did mark thy martial garb:
Heaven's angels bless thee!

Othus.
And earth's too, gentle Ella.

[Artillery heard again.
Ella
(to Othus, starting fearfully).
O dost thou smile, and such light words affect,
Whilst ruin growls so near us? hath sad use
Made misery and sport, and death and merriment, amiliar neighbours?—I'll into my chamber.

Enter Petronius and a disguised Turk.
Pet.
(sternly to Ella).
Yes, to thy chamber go: thou liv'st, methinks
On the house-top, or watching in the towers.
I like it not; and maiden privacy
Becomes thy state and years. (To Othus.)
Ha! art thou Othus?
Thou'rt well accoutred, sooth! I knew thee not.

Mar.
Yes, he is now a valiant soldier grown:
His Grecian lute, and pen, and books of grace
Are thrown aside, and the soft letter'd sage
Grasps a rude lance.

Ella.
Nay, mock him not, for it is nobly done.

Pet.
(sternly to Ella).
Art thou still here?
[Exit Ella, abashed and chidden.
And now, my lord,—

[Turning to Othus.
Othus
(angrily).
And now, my lord, good evening:
I too, belike, shall trespass on your patience,
If longer I remain.

[Exit
Pet.
Well, let him go, it suits our purpose better.
[Exit.
But who could e'er have thought in warlike garb
To see him guised? He, too, become a fool!

Mar.
He thought, as well I guess, to move me also
His brave devoted brotherhood to join:
This was his errand here.

Pet.
I do believe it well: for Constantine,
With many fair and princely qualities
That in his clear morn no attention drew,
Now, on the brow of dark adversity,
Hangs like a rainbow on a surly cloud,
And all men look to him. But what avails
This growing sentiment of admiration
To our good means? Good Turk, where, is thy gold?

Turk
(giving him a bag).
There, Christian, whom
I may not well call good.

Pet.
That as thou wilt: but Mahomet, thy master,
Shall find me still his faithful agent here.
This very night, as I have promised to him,
The people shall in insurrection rise,
Clam'ring to have the city yielded up;
And if your narrow caution stint me not
In that which rules the storm, it shall be raised
To the full pitch.

Turk.
And what is that, Petronius?

Pet.
More gold. Ay, by thy turban and thy beard!
There is a way to make our timid sluggards
The sultan's work within these walls perform
Better than armed men.

Turk.
And what is that, I pray?

Pet.
Why, more gold still.—
I have in pay, besides our mutinous rabble,
Who bawl, and prate, and murmur in our streets,
Prophets, and conjurors, and vision-seers,
And wise men, not a few, whose secret haunts
The timid flock to: many are the palms
That must be touch'd.—There are within our walls
Of idle, slothful citizens, enow,
If with their active master they should join,
Still to defend them: therefore, be assured,
He who shall keep this fickle, wav'ring herd
From such wise union, shall to Mah'met give
This mistress of the East.

Turk.
Fear not; thou shalt be satisfied.

Pet.
Right: let us now to work: 'tis near the time
When, from the walls returning with his friends,
The emperor his ev'ning hour enjoys,
And puts off warlike cares: now let us forth,
And urge those varlets on.
(To Marthon.)
Do thou into the eastern quarter go,
And stir them up. Where is our trusty Gorbus?
The western is his province. Send him hither:
We must some counsel hold: meantime within
I wait his coming. Be thou speedy, Marthon.
[Exit Marthon. To the Turk.)
Remember, friend.

Turk.
Thou shalt be satisfied.

Pet.
Good fortune smile upon us!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A state apartment in the imperial palace, with splendid sideboards, set forth, on which are seen cups and goblets, &c. as if prepared for a grand repast, and several domestics crossing the stage, carrying different things in their hands. Enter Heugho, followed by a stranger and two inferior domestic officers.
Heugho
(after looking over every thing).
Is nought omitted here? the rubied platters
And the imperial cup—I see them not.

1st offi.
What boots it now, encompass'd thus with foes,
And death and ruin grinning at our side,
To set forth all this sumptuous garniture,
Which soon shall in a Turkish harem shine?
The emp'ror heeds it not.

Heugho
(stamping with his foot).
Dog, but I heed it!
And were the floating remnant of a wreck,
With the sea bellowing round it, all that now
Remain'd of the eastern empire, I thereon,
Until the last wave wash'd us from its side,
Would humbly offer to brave Constantine
The homage due to mine imperial lord.
Out on thee, paltry hind! go fetch them hither.

[Exit officer.
Stranger.
This is the hour, you say, when Constantine,
Like a tired woodman from his daily toil,
Unclasps his girded breast; and with his friends
Enjoys his social meal right cheerfully
For one so overshadow'd with dark fate.
I am a stranger here, and, by your leave,
I fain would tarry still to have one view
Of his most noble countenance.

Heugho.
Thou'rt welcome.
And, gentle stranger, thou wilt see a prince,
Who ably might have reign'd, had not his heart
To the soft shades of friendly intercourse
Still turn'd, as to its true and native place:
A prince with loving friends, but lacking troops:
Rich in the dear good-will of gen'rous minds,
But poor in kingly allies. One thou'lt see,
Whose manly faculties, beset with gifts
Of gentler grace, and soft domestic habits,
And kindliest feelings, have within him grown
Like a young forest-tree, beset and 'tangled,
And almost hidd'n with sweet incumb'ring shrubs;
That, till the rude blast rends this clust'ring robe,
Its goodly hardy stem to the fair light
Discovers not. Hark! now they come!
[Flourish of trumpets.
Stand thou secure, and see whate'er thou wilt.
[Calling to some people off the stage
Ho! you without! move there with more despatch.

[Several domestics again cross the stage as before.
Stranger.
See, yonder come the brave imperial friends,
If right I guess. They bear a noble mien.
And who is he who foremost walks with steps
Of gravely-measured length, and heavy eyes
Fix'd on the ground?

[Pointing off the stage.
Heugho.
That is Justiniani; a brave soldier,
Who doth o' tiptoe walk, with jealous care,
Upon the very point and highest ridge
Of honour's path, demure and circumspect,
Like nicest maid, proud of her spotless fame;
A steady, cheerless friend.

Stranger.
And who is he with open, lib'ral front,
Who follows next?

Heugho.
He is the brave Rodrigo;
That Genoese, who, with four gallant ships,
Did in the front of the whole Turkish fleet
So lately force his passage to our port,
Bearing us gen'rous and most needful succour.
Does he not look like one, who in the fight
Would fiercely strive, yet to the humbled foe
Give quarter pleasantly?

Stranger.
And who comes after with more polish'd aspect,
But yet, methinks, keen and intelligent?

Heugho.
Oh, that is Othus; a soft letter'd sage,
Who wears his soldier's garb with its first gloss.

Stranger.
Constantine comes not yet?

Heugho.
No; first of all to his imperial dame,
Who o'er his mind a greater influence has
Than may, perhaps, with graver wisdom suit,
Being a dame of keen and lofty passions,
Though with fair virtues graced, he ever pays
His dear devotions: he will join them shortly.
But softly, here they are.

Enter Justiniani, Rodrigo, Othus, and many others of the Emperor's friends, armed as if returned from the walls.
Rod.
(to Justiniani).
Thou'rt sternly grave: has aught in this day's fight
Befall'n, thy eager temper to disturb?

Just.
Your first directed fire should, in good right,
Have been against that Turkish standard sent,
Rear'd in their front.

Rod.
And shall we seriously expend our strength
In paying worship to each Turkish rag
That waves before our walls?
But frown not on me, friend: perhaps I'm wrong.
We who are bred upon a bark's rough side,
And 'midst the rude contention of the waves,
Must force our steady purpose, as we may,
Right in the teeth of all opposing things,
Wrestling with breakers on the scourged rock,
Or tilting it with a seal's cub, good faith!
As it may chance; nought do we know of forms.

Othus.
Another time, valiant Justiniani,
With more respect to warlike ceremony
We will conduct ourselves.
Rodrigo well hath pled his own excuse;
And I, thou knowest, am but new in arms.

Just.
Methinks, e'en to a child it had been plain
That, when so circumstanced—

Othus.
Hush, hush, I pray thee, now! the emp'ror comes:
This is his hour of cheerful relaxation,
Snatch'd from each circling day of busy cares,
A faint gleam thrown across a dismal gloom,
Let us not darken it with petty brawls.

Enter Constantine.
Con.
(saluting them).
A pleasant meeting to us all, brave friends,
After our day of toil! There be among us
Tired limbs that well have carn'd their hour of rest;
This kindly-social hour, this fleeting bliss
Of the tired labourer. Undo our bracings,
And let us sup as lightly as we may.
[Taking off his helmet, which he gives to an attendant.
This galls me strangely;
Mine armourer, methinks, has better skill
To mar men's heads than save them.
Nay all of you, I pray.
[They all begin to take off their helmets, and part of their armour.
And gentle Othus too, unbrace thyself:
How likest thou the gripe of soldiers' gear?

Othus.
Worn in the cause, for which I wear it now,
It feels like the close hug of a rough friend,
Awkward but kindly.

Con.
Thanks, gen'rous Othus! it had pleased me better
To've had the gentle service of thy pen.
Thou couldst have told, if so it might have been,
How brave men acted, and how brave men fell.—
Well, let it be.
[Turning aside to check his emotion, and then assuming a cheerful face.
You gallant seamen, in th' applauding view
Of the throng'd beach, amidst the tempest's rage,
E'en on the last plank of your sever'd bark,
Ride it careeringly, my brave Rodrigo!

Rod.
Yes, royal sir; with brave true-hearted mates
All things we do and bear right cheerfully.

Con.
And so will we.—Your hand, my gallant friend!
And yours, and yours, and yours, my brave Eubedes—
And noble Carlos too—and all of you—
[Taking all their hands, one after another.
I am indeed so mated.
Bring me a cooling cup, I pray, good Heugho,
My tongue is parch'd.
[Heugho presents a cup to him, kneeling.
What, wilt thou still upon thine aged limbs
These cumbrous forms impose? These surly times
Suit not such ceremony, worthy Heugho.

Heugho.
Be health and sweet refreshment in the draught,
My royal master!

Con.
(tasting it).
And so there is: few cups presented thus
Come with such kindness. But I have, in truth,
Shrunk, as a potentate, to such small grasp,
That now I fairly may put in my claim
To the affections of a man.—Brave friends,
Health to you all!
[Drinks, then turning with a smile to Justiniani.
Justiniani, I with thee alone
Have cause of quarrel in this day's long toil.

Just.
How so, and please your highness?
The holy hermit, counting o'er his beads,
Is not more scrupulous than I have been
Nought of his sacred duty to omit.

Con.
Thou putst a gross affront upon the worth
Of all thy warlike deeds; for thou from them
Claimst not the privilege to save thyself
From needless dangers. On the walls this day
Thou hast exposed thyself like a raw stripling,
Who is ashamed to turn one step aside
When the first darts are whizzing past his ear.
Rodrigo there, beneath a pannier
Would save his head from the o'er-passing blow,
Then, like a lion issuing from his den,
Burst from his shelter with redoubled ardour.
Pray thee put greater honour on thyself,
And I will thank thee for it.

Just.
I stand reproved.

Con.
I'm glad thou dost.—Now to our social rites!
No tired banditti in their nightly cave,
Whose goblets sparkle to the ruddy gleam
Of blazing faggots, eat their jolly meal
With toils, and dangers, and uncertainty
Of what to-morrow brings, more keenly season'd
Than we do ours.—Spare not, I pray thee, Heugho,
Thy gen'rous Tuscan cup: I have good friends
Who prize its flavour much.

[As he turns to go with his friends to the bottom of the stage, where a curtain between the pillars being drawn up, discovers their repast set out; a citizen enters in haste.
Cit.
I crave to speak unto the emperor.

Con.
What is thine errand?

Cit.
My royal sir, the city's in commotion:
From ev'ry street and alley, ragged varlets
In crowds pour forth, and threaten mighty things.
But one, whom I outran, comes on my steps
To bring a fuller tale.

Con.
(to citizen).
Thou'rt sure of this?

Cit.
It is most certain.

Con.
(to Othus).
What thinkst thou, good Othus?

Othus.
I doubt it not: 'tis a degraded herd
That fills your walls. This proud imperial city
Has been in ages past the great high-way
Of nations driving their blind millions on
To death and carnage. Through her gates have pass'd
Pale cowled monarchs and red-sworded saints,
Voluptuaries foul, and hard-eyed followers
Of sordid gain—yea, all detested things.
She hath a common lake or sludge-pool been,
In which each passing tide has left behind
Some noisome sediment. She is choked up
With mud and garbage to the very brim.
Her citizens within her would full quietly
A pagan's slaves become, would he but promise
The sure continuance of their slothful ease.
Some few restraints upon their wonted habits
And Mah'met's gold, no doubt, have roused the fools
To this unwonted stir.

Con.
It may be so: I shall wait further tidings.
Meantime, my friends, go ye, and as ye can,
Snatch a short soldier's meal.
[They hesitate.
Nay, go I pray you!
I must not to my friends say “I command.” [They all go immediately, and without any order standing round the table, begin to eat.
(To the citizen remaining still on the front of the stage.)

And so thou sayst—But lo! another messenger.

Enter another Citizen in great haste.
2d cit.
The citizens in crowds—the men and women—
The very children too—mine eyes have seen it—
In crowds they come—

Con.
Take breath, and tell thy tale
Distinctly. From what quarter comest thou?

2d cit.
I'm from the east.

Enter 3d Citizen.
3d cit.
I come to tell your highness that the city
Is in commotion; e'en with flesh-forks arm'd,
And all the implements of glutt'nous sloth,
The people pour along in bawling crowds,
Calling out, “bread,” and “Mah'met,” and “surrender,”
Towards the royal palace.

Con.
And whence art thou?

3d cit.
I'm from the western quarter.

Con.
Ha! spreads it then so wide?
[Calling to his friends at the bottom of the stage.
Friends, by your leave,
I somewhat must upon your goodness bear.
Give me my helmet and my sword again:
This is no partial fray.

[Beginning to arm, whilst all the rest follow his example.
Rod.
Well, let us jostle with these ragged craft,
And see who grapples best.

[Buckling on his armour gaily.
Just.
A soldier scorns to draw his honour'd blade
On such mean foes: we'll beat them off with sticks.

Othus.
Words will, perhaps, our better weapons prove,
When used as brave men's arms should ever be,
With skill and boldness. Swords smite single foes,
But thousands by a word are struck at once.

[As they all gather round Constantine, and are ready to follow him, enter Valeria in great alarm, followed by Lucia, and several ladies.
Val.
(to Constantine).
O, hast thou heard it?

Con.
Yes, my love, they've told me.

Val.
From the high tower my ladies have descried
The dark spires redd'ning in their torches' light,
Whilst, like the hoarse waves of a distant sea,
Their mingled voices sweet as they approach.

Con.
It is a storm that soon will be o'erblown:
I will oppose to them a fixed rock,
Which they may beat against but cannot shake.

Val.
That is thyself.—O, no! thou shalt not go!
Yea, I am bold! misfortune mocks at state,
And strong affection scorns all reverence;
Therefore, before these lords, e'en upon thee,
Thou eastern Cæsar, do I boldly lay
My woman's hand, and say, “thou shalt not go.”

Con.
Thy woman's hand is stronger, sweet Valeria,
Than warrior's iron grasp,
But yet it may not hold me. Strong affection
Makes thee most fearful where no danger is:
Shall eastern Cæsar, like a timid hind
Scared from his watch, conceal his cowering head?
And does an empire's dame require it of him?

Val.
Away, away! with all those pompous sounds!
I know them not. I by thy side have shared
The public gaze, and the applauding shouts
Of bending crowds: but I have also shared
The hour of thy heart's sorrow, still and silent,
The hour of thy heart's joy. I have supported
Thine aching head, like the poor wand'rer's wife,
Who, on his seat of turf, beneath heaven's roof,
Rests on his way.—The storm beats fiercely on us:
Our nature suits not with these worldly times,
To it most adverse. Fortune loves us not;
She hath for us no good: do we retain
Her fetters only? No, thou shalt not go!
[Twining her arms round him.
By that which binds the peasant and the prince,
The warrior and the slave, all that do bear
The form and nature of a man, I stay thee!
Thou shalt not go.

Con.
Wouldst thou degrade me thus?

Val.
Wouldst thou unto my bosom give death's pang?
Thou lov'st me not.

Con.
(with emotion, stretching out his hands to his friends, who stand at some distance).
My friends, ye see how I am fetter'd here.
Ye who thus bravely to my fortunes cling
With generous love, less to redeem their fall
Than on my waning fate by noble deeds
To shed a parting ray of dignity:
Ye gen'rous and devoted; still with you
I thought to share all dangers: go ye now,
And to the current of this swelling tide
Set your brave breasts alone!
[Waving them off with his hand, and then turning to her.
Now, wife, where wouldst thou lead me?

Val.
(pointing with great energy to the friends who are turning as if to go out).
There, there! O, there! thou hast no other way.
[Brushing away her tears hastily, and then assuming an air of dignity, she takes Constantine by the hand, and leading him across the stage, presents him to his friends.
Most valiant, honour'd men, receive your chief,
Worthy the graceful honours of your love,
And heaven's protecting angel go with you!

[Exeunt Constantine and his friends, paying obeisance to her as they retire, which she returns with the profoundest respect, continuing to look after them till they are out of sight; then returning to the front of the stage with a deep sigh, remains for some time with her eyes fixed on the ground.
Lucia.
My dear and royal mistress, be not thus!
The people will their sov'reign lord respect.

Val.
Will they? Where is my little Georgian maid,
Whose grandsire, though a brave and sov'reign prince,
Was piecemeal torn by a ferocious crowd?

Lucia.
She told a wonderful surcharged tale,
Perhaps to move your pity: heed it not.

Val.
Ah! whereunto do all these turmoils tend—
The wild contention of these fearful times?
Each day comes bearing on its weight of ills,
With a to-morrow shadow'd at its back,
More fearful than itself.—A dark progression—
And the dark end of all, what will it be?

Lucia.
Let not such gloomy thoughts your mind o'ercast;
Our noble emperor has on his side
The dark and potent powers.

Val.
What is thy meaning?

Lucia.
A rarely-gifted man, come from afar,
Who sees strange visions rise before his sight
Of things to come, hath solemnly pronounced it,
That Paleologus has on his side
The dark and potent powers.

Val.
Alas! alas! are they the friends of virtue?
Who told thee this?

Lucia.
One unto whom he told such marv'llous things
As did all natural knowledge far exceed.

Val.
Thou dost impress me with a strange desire,
As though it were upon my mind impress'd
By secret supernatural power. Methinks,
Were this dread night with all its dangers past,
I too would fain—Ha! hark! what noise is that?
[Listening with great alarm.
Hark, hark! it is the sound of many sounds,
Mingled and terrible, though heard afar.

Lucia.
Shall I ascend the tower, and give you notice
Whate'er I see?

Val.
(eagerly).
I'll go myself.

[Exit in great alarm, followed by Lucia and ladies.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An open street before the imperial palace. A crowd of men, women, and children discovered, bearing in their hands torches, with clubs, sticks, & c., and the stage entirely lighted by the red glare of their torches cast up against the walls of the building. The confused noise and clamour of a great crowd is heard as the curtain draws up.
1st crowd.
Holla! let them come forth who trouble us,
And love they blood and beating, they shall have it.

2d crowd.
Surrender! bread and wine, and peaceful days!
Surrender, devils, or ye shall pay the cost!

[All the crowd call out clamorously, and brandish their torches, &c., in a threatening manner against the palace.
3d crowd.
Must we, men well instructed, rear'd, and cherish'd,
The chiefest of all townsmen of the earth;
We, whom all nations know and look upon
With envious worship—must we from our meals
And quiet couches, like your rude barbarians,
Be scared and roused with the continued bellowing
Of curst artillery? it is a shame.

1st crowd.
It is a crying, an insulting shame.
E'en Mahomet regards our polish'd race
And rare acquirements; but for Constantine—

2d crowd.
Ay, ay! let him come forth with his base crew
Of savage strangers; and should they refuse us,
E'en with good teeth and nails, fail other means,
We will do vultures' work upon them all. (All of them calling out together, and brandishing their torches, &c., as before.)
Holla! holla! we say to you again;
Emperor! Constantine! come forth to us!

[A grand door of the palace opens, from which two flights of stairs descend into the street, and Constantine, with his friends, appear coming out upon the landing-place. The crowd raise a great noise upon seeing him, and he stretches out his hand as if he wished to speak, but they still continue loud and clamorous.
Con.
Audience, if that your sov'reign may command it!

4th crowd.
Yes, let us hear what he will say to us.
(Several together.)
There is no harm in that: peace all of you!

Con.
Behold me at your wish, assembled citizens:
Was it the voice of children or of foes
That call'd me forth?

3d crowd.
Go to with mocking words! are we thy children?

Con.
Ye say, indeed, too truly! children do
Support, and honour, and obey their sire:
They put their aiding hand to every burden
That presses on him: ever gather round him
When dark misfortune lowers; and, strong in them,
He lifts his honour'd head amidst the storm,
Blessing and bless'd.
But I have stood in the dark pass alone,
Facing its fiercest onset. In your homes
Ye've stretch'd your easy limbs and fann'd your brows,
Whilst I in parching toil have spent the day,
Aided by strangers. Ye too truly say
“Are we thy children?”—When my sky was clear,
Ye follow'd me with fond applauding love,
And bade God bless your sire; but when it lower'd,
Back to your homes ye shrank, and gen'rous strangers
Are by my side where children should have stood. (A confused murmur rises amongst them, and some call out).
He speaks good reason, neighbours.
(Others call out.)
Out on it! all fair words!
(Others.)
Peace, sirs! we'll hear him out.
(Others.)
No! no! no! no!

[Brandishing their torches violently.
Othoric
(breaking through them with a great club in his hands).
Peace, friends, I say! I am a strong Hungarian,
And I will hear him out.

[The clamour subsides.
Con.
Yes, when the tempest lower'd, ye shrank away.
But if some gen'rous shame has moved you now—
If, thus assembled, with repentant zeal
Ye would return, behold these open'd arms!
O there be still amongst you men sufficient
To save your city, your domestic roofs,
Your wives, your children, all that good men love;
Were each one willing for a little term
To face but half the dangers which perforce
Not doing this, he stands exposed to;
To bear but half the toils which I bear daily,
And shall bear lovingly!

1st crowd.
Go to! surrender and have done with it.
Who thanks—who calls upon thee for thy toils?

Con.
That voice, which, in the hour of trial, bids
The good man give his soft and sensitive frame
To death and torture, and e'en fearful woman
Bend her fair neck unto the uplifted stroke,
Calls upon me—yea, and I will obey it!

Othoric.
By the good saints, he speaks like a brave man.

1st crowd.
Acts he like one? will he come down to us?
(Several speaking together.)
He does; he comes in truth!

[Constantine, after speaking in dumb show to his friends, descends the stairs.
2d crowd.
Ay, in good faith, he comes unarmed too!

Con.
No, citizens, unarm'd I am not come;
For ev'ry good man here some weapon wears
For my defence.

4th crowd.
Yes, he says well; and we'll defend him too.
(Several others.)
And so we will; huzza! huzza! huzza!
Long live brave Constantine, our noble Emperor!
(Many speaking at once.)
No, no! peace and surrender is our call!

[Raising loud cries, and brandishing their torches with violent threatening gestures.
4th crowd.
Hear him out, fools, and he'll perhaps consent
To hon'rable surrender.

Con.
(to 4th crowd, and those who range themselves on his side).
No, friends; if in this hope with me ye stand,
Turn to your place again; for whilst I breathe,
With men enough in these encompass'd walls
To fire one gun, never shall Turkish banner
Upon our turrets wave. In this firm mind,
Upon those walls I am content to die,
By foemen slain, or, if heav'n wills it so,
Here on this spot, by those I will not name.

Othoric.
No! we will die first, be it as it may,
Ere one hair of thy noble head shall fall!

Crowd
(on Constantine's side)
Long live brave Constantine! brave Paleologus!
Huzza! huzza!

Crowd
(on Constantine's side)
No; bread, and peace, and Mahomet, say we!

[Both parties call out tumultuously, and threaten one another, and Rodrigo, Justiniani, and Othus rush down amongst them, leaving their other friends to guard the door of the palace.
2d crowd
(to Rodrigo).
Ay, thou sea-lion! thou too needs must come
To growl upon us.

Rod.
No, faith! I know you well: ye are at large
A set of soft, luxurious, timid slaves,
On whom a cat with muffled paws might mew,
And ye would turn from it.—But still amongst you,
I would upon it pledge my mane and claws,
There are some honest souls who have ere now
Quaff'd their full bumpers to a brave man's health,
And I, in sooth, am come, with their good leave,
To shake hands with them all.
[Holding out his hand invitingly to the opposite crowd.
Come; who loves valiant worth and Paleologus,
Give me his hand.
(Many of the crowd giving him their hands.)
There is one for thee.
(Second.)
Ay, and there. (Third.)
And there.

Rod.
(to one who hesitates).
And thou, too, for thou wearst upon thy brow
A soldier's look: I must perforce have thee.
[Casting up his hat in the air, and joined by all the crowd on his side.
Long live brave Constantine! huzza!

[This they continue to do till the opposite party are dispirited and beat off the stage. Rodrigo then presents his newly-acquired friends to Constantine.
Con.
I thank you all, my brave and zealous friends.
Within the palace walls I'll now conduct you,
And marshal there my new-gain'd strength, for which
I give heaven thanks.

[Exeunt; Constantine, followed by his friends, &c. Rodrigo walking last, and just about to go off the stage, when Othoric re-enters by the opposite side, and calls after him.
Othoric.
Hark ye! a word with you, my noble captain.

Rod.
(returning).
What wouldst thou say?

Othoric.
Look on my face; my name is Othoric;
I'm strong, thou seest, and have a daring soul;
Look on my face; my name is Othoric:
Thinkst thou thou shalt remember me, though thou
Shouldst ne'er again behold me?

Rod.
I shall, my friend: thou hast a daring countenance.

Othoric.
My deeds shall not belie it. With this crowd
I came, a stranger of most desp'rate fortune,
And hired by treach'rous men fell work to do.
But now, unhired, I'll do for your brave master
A deed that shall make Turkish ears to tingle,
And Christian too, or fail it or succeed.

Rod.
What wilt thou do?

Othoric.
The consciousness of what one arm performs
Let one heart keep.

Rod.
Heaven aid and prosper then thy secret thought,
If it be good and honest! Fare thee well!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

A small narrow street, before a private sombre-looking house. Enter Othus and Rodrigo.
Othus.
Move slowly here, for now we pass the fane,
In which the mystic vision-seeing sage
To ears of faith speaks his wild oracles.

Rod.
What, he of whom we've heard such marv'llous things?

Othus.
Yes; such perturbed times his harvest prove,
When anxious minds, in dread of coming ill,
Would draw aside, impatiently, the veil
Of dark futurity.—Softly, I pray:
A female form now issues from the door:
It moves, methinks, like Ella.

Enter Ella from the house, with a female Attendant.
Rod.
(eagerly).
It is herself, and I will speak to her.
Fair maid, as well I guess by that light trip,
Thy lover's fate hangs on a lucky thread;
Tough, and well whiten'd in a kindly sun.

Ella.
Well hast thou guess'd: fortune is passing kind;
She leads thee, fights for thee, and guards thy head
From ev'ry foeman's stroke.

Rod.
Ay, but thy lover, Ella! was it not
Of him we spoke?

Ella.
Fy, do not mock me thus!

Othus.
In truth he mocks thee, Ella, and no faith
To fates foretold or mystic sages gives.

Rod.
Believe him not, sweet maid. We seamen, truly,
Small dealings have with learned sorcery;
Nor bead, nor book, nor ring, nor mutter'd rhymes,
Are for our turn: but on the sea-rock's point,
In shape of hern, or gull, or carrion-bird,
Our un-feed wizards sit, and, with stretch'd throats,
Speak strange mysterious things to wave-toss'd men,
With many perils compass'd. Nay, ofttimes
The mermaid, seated on her coral throne,
Spreading her yellow hair to the sunn'd breeze,
Will sing a song of future fortunes fair
To him who has the luck to meet with her:
And e'en the nightly winds will through our shrouds
Distinctive voices utter unto those,
Who in their storm-rock'd cradles lie, and think
Of their far-distant homes.—I do believe
That all good fortune shall betide thy love,
Being thy love; for that doth far outdo
All other fortune; and besides, no doubt,
A fair and courtly youth.

Ella.
Go to! go to! thou mockest me again!
I love a brave man—

Rod.
And not passing fair,
Nor very courtly?

Othus.
No, nor wearing now
His youth's best bloom; but somewhat weatherbeaten,
And sunn'd on sultry shores?

Ella.
Fy on you both, you hold me in derision!
I'm young, and all unlearn'd, and well I know
Not passing sage; but do I merit this?

[Turns to go away from them in tears.
Rod.
By heavens thou shalt not go!
[Catching hold of her hand to prevent her.
Thou sweetest thing
That e'er did fix its lightly-fibred sprays
To the rude rock, ah! wouldst thou cling to me?
Rough and storm-worn I am: but if thou lov'st me,—
Thou truly dost,—I will love thee again
With true and honest heart, though all unmeet
To be the mate of such sweet gentleness.

Othus.
I hear a noise of footsteps: we'll retire;
Let us pursue our way.
[Looking behind as they go off.
'Tis one belonging to Valeria's train,
Who hither comes with quick and eager gait.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A large sombre room, with mystical figures and strange characters painted upon the walls, and lighted only by one lamp, burning upon a table near the front of the stage. Enter a Conjuror in a long loose robe, and Petronius, meeting him, by opposite sides.
Pet.
Well, my good sage, how thrives thy mystic trade?
Go all things prosperously?

Con.
As thou couldst wish: to many a citizen
I have the fix'd decree of fate foretold,
Which to the Sultan gives this mighty city,
Making all opposition and defence
Vain; and their superstition works for us
Most powerfully.

Pet.
So far 'tis well; but be thou on thy guard;
I am expressly come to caution thee.
Should any visit thee, whom thou suspectest
To be connected with th' imperial friends,
Be sure thy visions speak to them of things
Pleasant to loyal ears.

Con.
Fear not; I have already been forewarn'd,
And have such caution follow'd.

Pet.
Thou hast done wisely: still keep on thy guard,
And be not e'en surprised if thou, ere long,
Shouldst have a royal visiter. My agents,
Who in th' imperial palace are on watch,
Have giv'n me notice that Valeria's mind
Is this way bent. If so, let thy delusions
Still tempt her in the city to remain,
For herein is the Sultan much concern'd.
Hash! we are interrupted.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
(to con.).
A noble matron craves to speak with thee.

Con.
Dost thou not know her?

Serv.
No; in a black stole
She's closely veil'd; yet noble is her gait;
And her attendant underneath his cloak,
But ill conceal'd, wears an imperial crest.

Pet. and Con.
(both together).
Can it indeed be she?

[Pausing to consider.
Con.
I'll venture it. (To servant.)
Go and conduct her hither.
[Exit servant.
It must be she: I'll boldly venture it.

Pet.
Thou mayst with little risk: meantime, remember
The caution I have given thee.

Con.
Trust to my skill, and be a while withdrawn,
My noble patron.

[Exit Petronius. Enter Valeria, concealed under a long black stole, followed by Lucia and two female attendants, who remain at the bottom of the stage whilst she comes forward.
Con.
Approach, great dame.

Val.
Yes, in misfortune so;
That is my eminence: and unto thee
I come, an anxious suitor, if that truly
Th' unseen mysterious powers, with whom thou dealst,
To human weal and woe alliance bear,
And may unto the care-rack'd mind foreshow
The path of awful fate that lies before it.
I do beseech thee!—

Con.
Say thou dost command;
For through that sable stole, were it as thick
As midnight's curtain, still I could behold
Thy keenly-glancing eye, and the dark arch
Of royal brows accustom'd to command.

Val.
Ha! dost thou see me?

Con.
Yea; and who is he,
Whose shadowy unreal form behind thee towers,
As link'd with thine though absent? O'er his head
Th' imperial eagle soars, and in his hand
He grasps the emblem of supreme command.

Val.
(throwing back the stole with astonishment mixed with fear).
O, most mysterious and wonderful!
Nothing is hid from thee: thou seest afar
The distant death's day of the swathed babe,
Falling in hoary age, and the life's morn
Of those who are not.—Here then all confess'd,
A wretched empress and a trembling wife,
I stand before thee. O let thy keen eye
Through the dark mist that limits nature's sight,
Follow that phantom o'er whose head doth soar
Th' imperial bird! for, be it good or ill,
His fate is mine, and in his fate alone
I seek to know it.

Con.
And hast thou strength to bear it? art thou firm?
For that which smites mine eye must smite thine ear.

Val.
(alarmed).
Thou reck'nest then to look on dreadful things?

Con.
I may or may not; but with mind not braced
In its full strength, seek not thy fate to know.

Val.
(after a hesitating pause of great agitation).
I can bear all things but the dread uncertainty
Of what I am to bear.

Con.
Then shall it be unto thee as thou wilt.

[After some mysterious motions and muttering to himself, he turns his face towards the bottom of the stage, as if he had his eye steadfastly fixed upon some distant point; and continues so for some time without moving, whilst she stands, watching his countenance eagerly, with her face turned to the front of the stage.
Val.
(impatiently, after a pause).
O! what dost thou behold?

Con.
Nay, nothing yet but the dark formless void.
Be patient and attend.—I see him now:
On the tower'd wall he stands: the dreadful battle
Roars round him. Through dark smoke, and sheeted flames,
And showers of hurtling darts, and hissing balls,
He strides: beneath his sword falls many a foe:
His dauntless breast to the full tide of battle
He nobly gives. Still on through the dark storm
Mine eye pursues him to his fate's high cope—

Val.
His fate's high cope! merciful, awful heaven!
[After a pause.
O, wherefore dost thou pause? thine eyes roll terribly:
What dost thou see? thou lookst on things most dreadful!
O look not thus, but say what thou dost see!

Con.
I see a frowning chief, the crescent's champion,
In bold defiance meet thy valiant lord.
The fight is fierce and bloody.—

Val.
Again thou pausest yet more terribly.—
Hast thou no utterance for what thou seest?
O God! O God! thou lookst upon his death!
[Clasping her hands violently.
Dost thou not speak? wilt thou not answer me?
Thou lookst upon his death!

Con.
I look on nothing, for thy frantic terrors
Have broken the fabric of my air-shaped vision,
And all is blank.

Val.
And will it not return to thee again?
O fix thine eyes, and to it bend thy soul
Intently, if it still may rise before thee,
For thou hast made me frantic!

Con.
(after a pause, and fixing his eyes as before).
The forms again return—
The champions meet: the fight is fierce and terrible:
The fateful stroke is given: and Constantine—

Val.
Merciful heaven!

Con.
And Constantine lays the proud crescent low.

Val.
(pausing for a moment as if to be assured that she has heard right, and then holding up her hands in ecstasy).
It is! it is! O words of bliss!—Thou seest it!
My Constantine lays the proud crescent low!
Thou lookst upon it truly; and their forms
Before thee move, e'en as the very forms
Of living men?

Con.
Even so.

Val.
O blessed sight!
It is not witch'ry's spell, but holy spirits
Sent from a gracious heav'n that shapes such forms;
And be it lawless or unhallow'd deem'd,
Here will I kneel in humble gratitude.

Con.
(preventing her from kneeling).
No, no, this must not be: attend again:
There's more behind.

Val.
Ha! sayst thou more behind? Or good or evil?

Con.
Mixed I ween: 'tis still in darkness lapp'd.

Val.
In darkness let it rest: I've heard enough,
I would not look upon thine eyes again,
And in my fancy shape thy unseen sights,
For all that e'er—Is that which lies behind
A far extended vision?
[Pausing anxiously.
Thou wilt not answer me—well, rest it so.
But yet, O forward look for one short year,
And say who then shall be this city's lord.

Con.
Thy husband and thy lord, most might dame,
Shall at that period be this city's lord.

Val.
Then I am satisfied. Thou hast my thanks,
My very grateful thanks. There is thy recompense,
And this too added.
[Giving him a purse, and then a ring from her hand.
We shall meet again
In happier days, when the proud crescent's low,
And thou shalt have a princely recompense.
[Turning to her attendants as she goes away.
Come, Lucia; come, my friends; the storm will pass,
And we shall smile in the fair light of heaven
In happier days.

[Exit, followed by her attendants.
Con.
(looking at his reward).
Good sooth, this almost smites against my heart;
But goes she not far happier than she came?
Have I not earn'd it well?

Re-enter Petronius.
Pet.
Thou hast well earn'd it.
What! harbour such poor scruples in a breast
So exercised in a trade like this?
Fy on't! But if thy conscience is so nice,
Know that thou hast in all good likelihood
Predicted truly; and her lord and husband
Shall be still, as thou sayst, this city's lord.

Con.
How so?

Pet.
Hast thou not skill enough to guess?
Much has the Sultan of Valeria heard;
And, with the future beauties of his palace,
His fancy, in the most distinguish'd rank,
Already places her. Thou wilt ere long,
I can foretel by certain fleeting shapes
Which at this moment dance before mine eyes,
A favour'd, famous, courtly prophet be.
My little Ella too, taught by my art,
May play, perhaps, her part; and so together
We'll amicably work.—May it not be?
Put up thy gold and say it is well earn'd.

Con.
It must be had, and therefore must be earn'd,
Falsely or honestly.—Does Constantine,
As speaks this morning's rumour, send again
Another embassy to Mahomet
With terms of peace?

Pet.
He does, my friend: already in the palace
He, and his band of self-devoted fools,
Deliberate on it. Thou, at no great risk,
Mayst prophecy the issue of their counsels.

Con.
I have adventured upon bolder guessing.

Pet.
Excepting that slight aid from Genoa,
Which by the master of a coasting vessel.
Kept secretly on watch, I am inform'd
Is now almost within sight of the coast,
No hope remains to Constantine. And this
Shall not deceive him long; for I've despatch'd,
In a swift-sailing skiff, a trusty agent,
Who shall with costly bribes and false reports
Deter their boldness from all desp'rate efforts
To force a passage to the block'd-up port:
A thing, Rodrigo's bold success alone
Hath taught us to believe e'en possible.

Con.
Thanks for your information, my good lord:
I'll profit by it.

Pet.
But use it prudently. And so good day.
Well thrive thy trade, and all good luck attend us.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

An apartment in the imperial palace, with a view through a grand arched door of another apartment, in which are discovered Constantine, Othus, Justiniani, Rodrigo, and others, arising from a council table. They enter and come forward.
Con.
Well, my brave friends, I to your care intrust
This last attempt by honourable treaty
To gain peace from the foe. Heav'n bless your efforts!

Jus.
All that strict honour will permit to us
Shall be most truly done, imperial lord,
And one step farther on we cannot go.

Con.
Had I wish'd more than this, Justiniani,
I had sent other ministers.—
Heav'n bless your efforts, brave ambassadors,
And make you wise as brave!
If we succeed not,
As much I fear, it is my earnest wish,
Ere the grand push that shall our fate decide,
To meet you all in blessed charity,
And join with you, perhaps, in the last rites
Of Christian worship that within our walls
Shall e'er be celebrated.

Othus.
Your wish shall be fulfill'd: we all desire it.

Con.
I thank you. In an hour hence be prepared
To set out for the Sultan's camp. So brothers,
Good day, and all good favour!

[Exeunt all but Constantine and Othus.
Con.
(to Othus, as he is about to go after the others).
Wilt thou go also, Othus?

Othus.
Not if your highness does command my stay.

Con.
Ah, gentle friend! I do no more command!
But this distresses thee. Well, gen'rous man,
Thou art commanded.
[Pointing to a seat, and they both sit.
Here, by thy friendly side,
I'll give my heart a little breathing space;
For oh! the gen'rous love of these brave men,
Holding thus nobly to my sinking fate,
Presses it sorely.
From thee nor from myself can I conceal
The hopeless state in which I am beset.
No foreign prince a brother's hand extends
In this my hour of need; no Christian state
Sends forth its zealous armies to defend
This our begirded cross: within our walls,
Though with th' addition of our later friends,
I cannot number soldiers e'en sufficient
To hold a petty town 'gainst such vast odds.
I needs must smile and wear a brow of hope,
But with thee, gentle Othus, I put off
All form and seeming; I am what I am,
A weak and heart-rent man.—Wilt thou forgive me?
For I in truth must weep.

Othus.
Yes, unrestrained weep, thou valiant soul
With many a wave o'er-ridden! Thou striv'st nobly
Where hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk:
And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed,
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears,
Kindred to those which now thou shedst. Thy name
Shall in succeeding ages be remember'd,
When those of mighty monarchs are forgot.

Con.
Deceive me not; thy love deceiveth thee.
Men's actions to futurity appear
But as th' events to which they are conjoin'd
Do give them consequence. A fallen state,
In age and weakness fall'n, no hero hath;
For none remain behind unto whose pride
The cherish'd mem'ry of his acts pertains.
O no, good Othus, fame I look not for.
But to sustain in heav'n's all-seeing eye,
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight,
With graceful virtue and becoming pride,
The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus station'd as I am, I will do all
That man may do, and I will suffer all—
My heart within me cries, that man can suffer.
[Starting up with vehemence, and holding up both hands firmly clenched.
Shall low-born men on scaffolds firmly tread,
For that their humble townsmen should not blush
And shall I shrink? No, by the living God!
I will not shrink, albeit I shed these tears.

Othus.
To be in toils and perils, any in sufferings,
With th' applauding sympathy of men
Upon his side, is to the noble mind
A state of happiness beyond the bliss
Of calm inglorious ease.

Con.
O no, good Othus! thou misjudgest of me.
I would, God knows, in a poor woodman's hut
Have spent my peaceful days, and shared my crust
With her who would have cheer'd me, rather far
Than on this throne; but, being what I am,
I'll be it nobly.

Othus.
Yes, thou wilt be it nobly, spirit as brave
As e'er wore Cæsar's name!

Con.
(smiling sorrowfully).
Yes, there is cause for me; there is good cause.
But for those valiant men, link'd in my fate,
Who have in other lands their peaceful homes
And dear domestic ties, on whom no claim
Lays its strong hold—alas! what cause have they?
What is their recompense? Fame is not mine;
And unto them—O this doth press my heart!
A heart surcharged with many cares, and press'd
With that besides, which more than all—with that
Which I have wrestled with—which I have striv'n—
With that which comes between me and myself—
The self that as a Christian and a man
I strongly strove to be—

Othus.
You have before some secret cause of trouble
Hinted in broken words: will not your highness
Unto a faithful friend—

Con.
(turning away from him).
No, no, good Othus!
Sometimes I dream like a distracted man,
And nurse dark fancies. Power and lawless will—
Defenceless beauty—Mahomet—Valeria—
Shape out of these wild words whate'er thou wilt,
For I can say no more.

Othus.
Alas, I know it all!

Con.
And yet why should it thus disturb my mind?
A thought, perhaps, that in no other breast
Hath any shelter found.—It is my weakness:
I am ashamed of it.—I can look
On my short fated span and its dark bound:
I can, God strength'ning me, my earthly task
Close as becomes a king; and, being closed,
To that which in this world's tumultuous stage
Shall happen after it, I am as nothing.

Othus.
Alas! my royal master, do not thus
To racking thoughts give way! are there not means
To free you from this pain, if you to use them
Have courage? Let the empress be convey'd
Far from these walls. It is a cruel remedy,
But it will give you peace.

Con.
I did attempt it, but she has so closely
Entwined herself upon me—O, my friend,
It needs must pass! I in th'unconscious grave
Shall be at rest.

Othus.
But does she know the nature of your fears?

Con.
O no! she does not! from that hateful subject,
As from a hideous serpent, still with her
I've kept aloof.—Alas! what can I do?
I could as well into her noble heart
Thrust the barb'd dart, as tell her what I fear.

Othus.
Perhaps she still, as from the common horrors
Of a sack'd town, may be conjured to flee.
And here she comes: be it at least attempted.

Enter Valeria, Lucia, and attendant Ladies.
Val.
(to Constantine).
I come to claim thy promise: one short hour,
A hasty sunbeam through the cloud's dark skirt,
Thou giv'st to me, and I must claim my right.
Thy friends, too, ere they go, shall be my guests;
I have brought powerful suitors to assist me.
[Pointing to her ladies.
Ha! what disturbs thee? how is this, my love?
Thy face is changed and troubled—What new cause—

Con.
O, no new cause! one that has much disturb'd me.

Val.
And one to me unknown?

Con.
Speak to her, Othus!

Othus.
By many various ills and cares oppress'd,
Your royal lord is still most closely touch'd
With that which does your weal regard. What fate
May, in a storm-ta'en city, of dire sights
And horrid cruelties, have in reserve,
If such the city's doom, who can foresee?
O, let him then his painful station hold,
Gen'rous Valeria! from one care relieved,
His heaviest care, the thought of leaving thee
The involved witness of such horrid things!

Val.
What wouldst thou say in this? Thinkst thou the ruin
In which he perishes will have for me
Or form or circumstances? It will be
Th' upbreaking crash of all existing things,
That undistinguish'd is, and felt but once.
Othus, thou talkst like an unskilful sage:
It was not thus thy master bade thee speak.

Con.
Valeria, hard necessity compels us.
I have already safe asylum sought
For the last tender remnant of our race,
That something might from this dire wreck be saved,
And shall I not for thee—

Val.
No; I am nothing
But what I am for thee! When that is finish'd—

Con.
Ah, my Valeria, but that will not finish!
Thou still mayst be for me—thou still mayst bear
Honour'd memorial amongst living men
Of him who was thy lord.—Good Lucia, aid me,
And gentle Servia, too, and all of you!
[To the ladies.
Cling round your mistress with your soothing love,
And say that in a foreign land you'll be
The faithful friends and soothers of her woe,
Where ev'ry virtuous heart will bear to her
The kindred ties of holiest sympathy.
Say ye will be with her in kindliest zeal:
Ye will not leave her?

Lucia and the other ladies.
No, we'll never leave her!
[Gathering round her affectionately.
Most dear and royal mistress, whilst life holds,
In whate'er land, in whate'er state you are,
We'll never leave you.

Val.
I know it well: thanks to your gen'rous love!
But yet forbear, nor thus beset me round!
[Putting them gently from her, and fixing her eyes upon Constantine.
O, Paleologus! hast thou for me
In fancy shaped a world and an existence
Where thou art not?
[Running to him and falling on his neck.
Here is my world, my life, my land of refuge,
And to no other will I ever flee.
Here still is light and hope; turning from this,
All else is round me as a yawning tomb.

Con.
My dearest love! my gen'rous honour'd love!
My sweet Valeria! thou distractest me;
But have thy way, for I can urge no more.
Let dark fate come: I will abide its worst.

Val.
Nay, say not dark; there is a hope within me;
'Tis sure, 'tis strong, it cannot be deceitful.
[A signal heard from without.
Hark! Hark! a signal!
(Voices are heard calling without.)
Ships are in sight! supplies and warlike aid!
Heaven sends us aid!

Val.
(holding up her hands).
O blessed sound! there is salvation in it.
Heaven sends us aid!
[Voices again call out as before, and the signal is repeated.
Again the blessed sound!
And here Rodrigo comes, wearing a face
Of welcome tidings. Enter Rodrigo.

Succours, brave Rodrigo?

Rod.
Yes, ships from Genoa are now in sight,
Bearing, no doubt, brave aid, if to the port
They can make good their entrance.
(All, except Constantine.)
Good heaven be bless'd.

Con.
And says Rodrigo “if?”

[Shaking his head.
Val.
Nay, fear not, they will enter; with them comes
Another brave Rodrigo; through barr'd adamant,
Did it oppose them, they will force their way.

Rod.
If they have but one jot of manhood in them,
They'll do all possible things.

Val.
Ay, and all things are possible!

Con.
In truth, thou talkst with such exulting confidence,
Thou almost temptest me to grasp at hope.

[Voices call out as before, and a signal from the towers.
Val.
The animating sound! Come, come! O, come!
And o'er the blue waves hail the blessed sight!

[Runs out exultingly, every one following her with animated alacrity.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Turkish camp; the tent of Mahomet, who is discovered sitting alone in the eastern manner, with a great sheet of parchment spread out before him, which he is considering attentively.
Mah.
(after tracing some lines with a pen or pencil).
Ho, Osmir! art thou here? Enter Osmir.

Come hither, vizir; follow with thine eye
The various dispositions of this plan
Which for our grand attack I here have traced.
God and the Prophet being on our side,
That mingled broil of fierce and dreadful fight,
Which shall not cease till from the list of nations
This eastern empire, with its long told line
Of paltry Cæsars, be expunged and blank,
Shall not be long delay'd.

Osmir.
All things must yield unto the towering spirit
And comprehensive genius of your highness.
Permit your slave.
[Looking over the plan.
Conceived, indeed, with deep and wondrous skill!
But, mighty lord, if that a worm may speak,
Your van, methinks, is of a motley class,
The vile refuse and garbage of the camp;
Are Mussulmen led on in glory's path
By such as these?

Mah.
(smiling fiercely).
No; but brave Mussulmen o'er such as these
May step to glory's path. Garbage, I trust,
Is good enough for filling ditches up.
Some thousand carcases, living and dead,
Of those who first shall glut the en'my's rage,
Push'd in, pell-mell, by those who press behind,
Will rear for us a bridge to mount the breach
Where ablest engineers had work'd in vain.

Osmir.
This did escape my more contracted thoughts.
And here your highness stations Georgian troops:
Are they sure men in such important service?

Mah.
(smiling again).
Ay, sure as death; here is my surety for them.
Seest thou what warriors in the rear are placed,
With each a cord and hatchet in his hand?
Those grizly hangmen, in their canvas sleeves,
Fight for me better than an armed band
Of Christian knights full cap-à-pie. Look o'er it:
Something, perchance, may have escaped my thoughts.

Osmir
(after again examining it).
No; every thing is consummately plann'd.—
But, mighty sultan, this old officer,
Whom you have station'd here with your new troops,
Is not to be relied on.

Mah.
How so, Osmir?

Osmir.
It is suspected that he has received
The en'my's gold; one thing, at least, is certain,
He has had private meetings with the foe.

Mah.
What! art thou sure of this?—Send for him quickly.
The fool 'mid blocks and bowstrings has so long
His base head tott'ring worn, he thinks, no doubt,
It needs must be his own. Send for him quickly,
And see that which is needful done upon him.
[Drawing the pen sternly across the name on the plan.
There; from the world of living things I blot him;
Another takes his place. (Giving a paper to Osmir.)

These are the usual orders for the night;
Assemble thou the sev'ral officers,
And give to each his own particular charge.

Osmir.
Your slave obeys.

[Exit.
Mah.
(alone, after musing for a little while).
Have I done well to give this hoary vet'ran
Who has for thirty years fought in our wars,
To the death-cord unheard?
[Sternly, after pausing a short space.
I have done well.
In my disguised rounds, but two nights since,
List'ning at his tent-door, I heard him speak
Words that methought approach'd to slight esteem
Of my endowments and capacity.
Yes, he is guilty.
[After walking up and down several times he opens another scroll.
But I will fear no treason: here is that
On which I may rely. In mortal man
I have no trust; they are all hollow slaves,
Who tremble and detest, and would betray.
But on the fates, and the dark secret powers,
So say those sure unerring calculations
Of deep astrology, I may depend.
[Sitting down again, and considering the scroll.
Ay, it must needs be so: this constellation
In close conjunction with the warrior's star,
Traced back in magic numbers three times three,
And nine times nine, and added three again,
Unto the hour of my nativity,
Makes it infallible. Here have I mark'd it
With my own science, num'ral, learn'd, and sure.
Ha! ha! your foolish Christians now believe
Men's future fortunes are by wizards seen,
In airy forms pourtray'd, like mimic shows,
And trust thereto with fond simplicity.
[Othoric, who about the middle of this speech has made his appearance from behind the curtain of the tent, disguised like a Turk, but without a turban, now, stealing alose up to Maiiomet, lifts up his dagger to strike.
What do I hear?

Othoric.
It is thy fate, blind Turk, uncalculated.

[Striking.
Mah.
(parrying the blow with his sheathed scimitar, which he afterwands draws).
Ho! help without! treason and parricide!
Ho! guards without, I say!

[Guards rush in, and Othoric is seized, after defending himself desperately.
Mah.
(to Othoric).
Who art thou? What dark tyrant set thee on
To do this murderous and horrid deed?

Othoric.
And thinkst thou such deeds horrid?—But I came
To act and not to speak.

Mah.
Say rather, villain, to be acted on.
Do racks and burning iron please thee well
That thou shouldst earn them with such desperate pains.
(To the Guards.)
Stretch out his arms, and let me look on them.
[Looking at his arms, and surveying him all over, he shrinks back as from a danger escaped, and then smiles grimly.
There will be tough work on those sinewy limbs
When they are dealt with. Lead the traitor off.
I will give orders for his fate ere long.
[To Othoric, who is about to speak.
Thou shalt not speak: I hate thy horrible face.
Lead him away!

[Exeunt Othoric and Guards, met by Petronius and Marthon, who enter as they are going out.
Pet.
What prisoner is this they lead along?

Mah.
A dark assassin in my tent conceal'd,
Whose daring hand e'en now aim'd at my life.

Pet.
(casting up his eyes to heaven).
The life of great and godlike Mahomet!
It makes my blood turn cold.

Mar.
I too am stunn'd, and tremble at the thought.

Mah.
Yes, all may tremble who in the dark purpose
Have part or knowledge had.

Pet. and Mar.
(both alarmed).
What means my lord?

[Mahomet walks several times across the stage with angry strides, whilst they look fearfully upon one another, and then going sternly up to them.
Mah.
I know the base transactions of last night:
Ye stuff'd my gold into the dirty palms
Of those who shook their torches in the air,
And cried long live brave Paleologus.
I know it all: think ye with upcast looks,
And mumm'ry such as this, to blind mine eyes?

Pet.
(falling on his knees).
As there's a God in heav'n, to you, great Sultan!
We have been true!

[Marthon kneels also.
Mah.
Up, crouching slaves! when men, so bred as you are,
Thus lowly kneel, my very soul abhors them.

Pet.
Your death, great monarch, were to Paleologus
Triumph and safety, but to us swift ruin.

Mar.
And shall suspicions so improbable
Fall upon us, who in your secret service
Have dangers braved, and from your hands alone
Look for the recompense?

Pet.
If we last night have fail'd—

Mah.
(stamping with his foot).
I will not hear you! Enter Osmir.

Osmir, knowst thou this horrible attempt?

Osmir.
I do, great prince, and bless the prophet's arm
That has preserved you. What base enemy
Has arm'd the desp'rate villain?

Mah.
Petronius here and his smooth Grecian friend
Throw accusation on the emperor.

Osmir.
This moment in your camp there is arrived
An embassage of his most honour'd friends,
Sent by the emperor to treat of peace.

Mah.
At this unlikely hour?

Osmir.
Yes, time now presses, and, as I should guess,
The hopes of succour from those friendly vessels
That vainly have attempted through your fleets
To force a passage, raising short-lived joy
Full soon extinguish'd, has to this late hour
Delay'd their coming.
Hope gone, they now are humbled suitors. Here,
Within your power, you have the chiefest men
Of the brave friends on whom he most depends;
This does not look like preconcerted plots
Of secret murder, at this very hour
To be attempted

Mah.
No, Osmir, there is reason in thy words.

Osmir.
But if your highness thinks it is expedient,
I will straightway arrest them.

Mah.
(after hesitating).
No; they are valiant men, and do as such
Claim honour from a valiant foe. Go say,
That by the morning's dawn they shall have audience;
The open camp, with wide-mouth'd cannon cloth'd,
And all my lofty garniture of war,
Shall be my hall of state. Secure those men
Until my farther orders!

[Pointing to Petronius and Marthon, and exit, followed by Osmir. Remain Petronius and Marthon guarded.
1st guard.
Come on, my masters, we'll conduct you safely.

Mar.
(to Petronius).
Is it to plunge me in this dreadful gulf
That your cursed lessons have seduced my youth?

Pet.
Upbraid me not. I have not for myself
A better fate reserved. But we are noble,
And of high lineage; fear not, for the Sultan
Will still respect us.

2d guard.
Ay, so belike he will; your noble heads
May with the royal scimitar be sever'd,
If he is much inclined to honour you.
Some men ere now, in other Sultans' days,
Have been so honour'd.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An open space in the camp, with the Janizaries and Turkish troops drawn up in order. Cannon and warlike engines seen mixed with the tents. A flourish of trumpets; enter Mahomet, with Osmir and his train, and places himself in a chair of state near the front of the stage. Another flourish of trumpets, and enter Othus, Justiniani, and Rodrigo, with a small train of attendants, walking slowly up the stage.
Mah.
(to Osmir, as they come forward).
These men approach us with a hardy step,
Nor wear the suppliant's humbled brow. Come they
To sue or to command us?
[To Othus and the other deputies, who make obeisance to him.
You are permitted to declare your errand.
If your hard-lesson'd chief, more prudent grown,
Will now resign his proud imperial city
Into the hands to whom high heaven's decree,
And power on earth resistless, soon shall give it,
I will receive that which he cannot hold
With grace and favour.

Othus.
High heaven's decrees are known to mortal man
But in th' event fulfill'd; and for earth's power,
The cannon-flanked cohorts, and wide front
Of far extended numbers, show it not
To him, who in the small and secret fortress,
E'en of one brave man's breast, more help discovers,
Oft in th' astounding hour of the storm's pitch,
Than in an armed host. Imperial Constantine
Will live or die within his city's walls
As may become their master.—Nevertheless,
He will so far to hard necessity—

Mah.
I hear no more: your words are in effectual,
And fall as powerless as the ruffian's sword,
Whom now, within my tent, your royal master,
Compell'd no doubt by hard necessity,
Has hired to murder me.

Just.
(stepping boldly forward).
Sultan, thou sittest where thou safely mayst
Say what thou wilt, therefore of all mankind
Thou most art bound to say but what is meet.
Put those accusing words that thou hast utter'd
Into the mouth of any other Turk,
Wore he a giant's form, for in your camp
I know that such there be, and I will prove it,
With this good soldier's arm, a cursed falsehood.

Othus
(to Justiniani, pulling him back).
Thou art not wise.—Great Sultan, hear me speak.
If any base attack upon your life
Has been attempted, let the murd'rous villain,
If still he breathes, be here before us brought.
In presence of your highness we will question him:
Perchance he will confess what secret foe
Has armed his daring hand.

Mah.
(after giving orders to a guard in dumb show, who immediately goes out).
Your suit is granted.
These men speak boldly, vizir.

[Aside to Osmir.
Osmir
(aside to Mahomet).
They shrink not from the proof.

Enter Othoric fettered and guarded.
Mah.
(to Othoric).
As thou mayst hope a mitigated doom,
I here command thee that thou truly answer
Whate'er those Roman deputies demand.

Othoric.
I do not hope a mitigated doom,
And therefore, Sultan, cannot be commanded:
But if this brave man here will question me,
[Pointing to Rodrigo.
For in his presence I do feel my spirit
To manhood's height braced up, I'll truly answer,
Though every word did in my sinews fix
The burning pincer's tooth.

Rod.
Ha! Othoric art thou not? the strong Hungarian?

Othoric
(smiling).
Ay, thou rememberest my name—I thank thee—
It pleases me to think thou'lt ne'er forget it.
Ask what thou wilt, and I will answer thee;
Bid me do what thou wilt, and I will do it,
Barring the hind'rance of these chains.

Rod.
Thanks to thee!
Then whatsoe'er the Sultan asks of thee,
Answer him truly. He will point his questions
Where his suspicion falls.

Othoric.
I will obey.

Mah.
(sternly).
Who hired thee, thou bold and hard-brow'd villain,
Such horrid deed to do?

Othoric.
I have been twice hired, mighty Mahomet,
To do fell deeds, in which I've lack'd performance.

Mah.
And who first hired thee?

Othoric.
Thyself.

Mah.
Base traitor!
Dar'st thou belie me to my very face?

Othoric.
That I belie thee not be this my token;
My hire was given to me by Petronius,
Told from a sable bag, on whose seal'd mouth
Thy scimitar and crescent were impress'd.

Othus.
Petronius!

Othoric.
Yes, that smooth, subtle Greek.

Mah.
He hired thee not to take the life of Constantine?

Othoric.
True; I was hired for wasteful insurrection,
Not for delib'rate murder. Though most wretched,
A stranger, griped by hard necessity,
The price he gave me ne'er had bought this arm
To such an act.

Mah.
And who did hire thee for this second deed,
Which thou must needs delib'rate murder call?

Othoric.
'Twas Constantine.

Just.
Thou liest, foul, artful villain!

Mah.
Peace I command! ye shall not interrupt him.
'Twas Constantine that hired thee?

Othoric.
Yes, great Sultan!
But not with gold, and he himself, I ween,
Unconscious of the act.

Mah.
What did he bribe thee with?

Othoric.
With that which does but seldom prove the means
Of like corruption—gen'rous admiration
Of noble manly virtue. I beheld him,
Like a brave stag encompass'd by base curs,
And it did tempt me.—Other bribe than this
Have I had none; and to no mortal ear
Did I reveal my purpose.

[Mahomet puts his hand on his forehead and seems disturbed, whilst the deputies hold up their hands exultingly.
Rod.
(to Othoric).
O for a galley mann'd with such as thou art,
Therewith to face a hundred armed ships,
Creatured with meaner life!
Yet thou must die, brave heart! yet thou must die.
Thou hast done that which in no circumstance
Man's hand may do, and therefore thou must perish.
But I'll remember thee: thy name is Othoric:
I will remember thee.

Osmir
(to Mahomet, who covers his face and seems disturbed, after a pause).
Your highness gives no orders to your slave
Touching the prisoner.

Mah.
(uncovering his face angrily).
His crime is plain: death be his instant doom.

Osmir.
And in what mode? or simple or with pains?

Mah.
Distract me not.

Othoric.
Vizir, be not so hasty.
I bear with me what will redeem my life,
And gain the Sultan's pardon.

Osmir.
Ah! thinkest thou to gain him with that bribe
Which Constantine gave thee?

[Shaking his head.
Othoric.
No, not with that. I wear upon this arm,
A potent band, with subtile magic wrought,
That, wheresoe'er 'tis on my body rubb'd
With mutter'd words which I alone do know,
Maketh the part firm and invulnerable
To sword, or bullet, or the arrow's point—
To all offensive things. Believe me not,
But see the proof.—Relieve mine arms, I pray,
That I may show this wonder.

Mah.
Unlock his fetters: if he tamper with us,
His tortures are enhanced.

Othoric
(to the guard who stands next him, after he has been unfettered, and at the same time uncovering his left arm).
Young Turk, thou wearst a dagger by thy side:
To show that I am made as other men,
Of flesh and blood as soft and sensitive,
When with no charm secured, thrust it, I pray thee,
Into this nerved flesh. Nay, do not shrink,
For I shrink not.

Mah.
Do it, thou timid slave!

[The guard slightly wounds Othoric 's arm with the point of the dagger.
Othoric.
You see it is an arm of flesh and blood;
And so you'll find my body in all parts,
Thrust where you will.—But mark me; wheresoe'er
I rub this band, your weapons have no power.
[Opening his breast and rubbing it with a bracelet which he takes from his arm, at the same time muttering some mystical words to himself.
Now try if e'er the stoutest arm amongst you,
With pike, or spear, or keenly-temper'd blade,
Can pierce this charmed breast.

Mah.
(to an attendant).
Attempt it, brawny slave; thine arm is strong.
(To Osmir.)
Give him a stronger weapon.—Now the proof!

[The slave, receiving a sword from Osmir, runs with full force upon Othoric, who falls down, pierced through the breast, and utters a convulsive laugh as he expires.
Rod.
(exultingly).
O, bravely done, thou spirit of true proof!

Just.
Yes, nobly has he shunn'd the degradation
Of slavish punishment.

Othus.
It was a lofty mind in a rude state
Of wild distorted virtue; 'cross the fancy
It stalks a gloomy, dark, gigantic shade,
Angel or fiend we know not.

Mah.
(aside to himself, turning gloomily away).
And Constantine is served by men like these!

Othus
(to Mahomet).
Seeing that of this crime our royal master
Doth clearly stand acquitted, by your word,
Most mighty Mahomet, we are permitted
To state his wishes.

Mah.
No, ambassadors;
I have already said I hear no more
Unless ye yield the city.—Leave ye have
In safety to return.—You and your chief
O'er a volcano's thinly-bridged gulf
Have ta'en your stand, and the dire crash is near.

Othus.
And with our chief in that tremendous ruin,
If it must be, we will sink lovingly.

Just.
We will sink honourably.

Rod.
We will sink gloriously. Ay, by heaven's light,
And cheerly too, great Sultan!
[Passing the body of Othoric as they turn to go away.
Thou noble wreck, thou wast rigg'd gallantly!

[Exeunt Othus, Justiniani, Rodrigo, and their attendants.
Mah.
(coming forward to the front of the stage, and standing for some time in a thoughtful posture much disturbed).
And Constantine is served by men like these!

Osmir
(to slaves, pointing to the body of Othoric).
Take up the carcase of that savage ruffian,
And stick it on a stake for vulture's food.

Mah.
(turning round angrily).
No, reptiles, let it have a soldier's grave!

Osmir.
This is exceeding mercy; ne'ertheless,
Your orders, mighty prince, shall be obey'd
By those who are as dust beneath your feet.

Mah.
Yes, I do know that I shall be obey'd
By those who are—I am begirt with slaves.
[Turning away, and stamping on the ground as he walks.
My enemy is served by men like these!
I will give orders with all pressing speed
That now my grand attack forthwith be made:
What next may be attempted by such foes
Who may divine?

Osmir.
That is the safest counsel.

[Exeunt; Mahomet tossing his arms and muttering us he goes out.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An outpost belonging to the Turkish camp, with a view of the city of Constantinople in the background seen in the dimness of cloudy moonlight. Enter several Turkish soldiers by different ways, meeting one another.
1st Turk.
Ho! who are ye? our friends?

2d Turk.
I know thy voice.

1st Turk.
Yes, we are friends; but let us separate,
And gain our tents as quickly as we may:
For now through all the camp the busy stir
Of warlike preparation is begun;
And ere the morning dawn, each armed Turk
Must hold him ready for th' approaching day
Of havock, blood, and spoil. Come, let us on!

3d Turk.
Yes; but, good comrades, do once more look back,
And see, through the wan night, those buildings gleam
With the last Christian fires that e'er shall burn
Within those circling walls.

2d Turk.
Ay, there the Prophet has prepared our rest.
There soon, midst heap'd-up spoils, and the wild wailings
Of fetter'd beauty, in our new-won homes,
We'll cast our reeking scimitars aside,
And lay us down in soft and lordly sloth.
Comrades, it is an animating sight.
But quickly let us gain our tents.—Hush! hush!
What Turk comes prowling this way, and alone?
It looks like Mahomet.

1st Turk.
It is the Sultan on his nightly rounds,
Disguised; let us avoid him.

3d Turk.
I'd rather cross a tiger on my way;
For, as the humour hits, it may be fatal
To know or not to know him. At the best
We shall be deem'd but lawless stragglers here:
Let us all separate and gain our tents.

[Exeunt hastily, all by different ways.
Enter Mahomet disguised, followed at a distance by the Vizir.
Mah.
(alone, after walking thoughtfully from the bottom of the stage, whilst Osmir remains in the background).
What boots this restless wish? 'tis all blank silence
On that for which my greedy ears still watch.
There's ne'er a Turk, who, o'er his ev'ning pipe,
Will not far rather talk of daring feats
By petty robbers done, than all the fame
And grand achievements of his sov'reign lord.
'Tis cheerless silence all! Dull stupid race!
They arm them for to-morrrow's fight, 'tis true,
With much alacrity, and talk of conquest,
Carnage, and spoils; but for their Sultan's name,
The name of Mahomet, through all the camp
I've scarcely heard its sound. Nay, once I heard it
In accents harsh pronounced, but as to listen
I nearer drew, my steps the speaker scared,
And all was into fearful silence hush'd.
Their Sultan's name!—Pest seize the stupid slaves!
O, Constantine! it is not thus thy soldiers
Do arm themselves for thee.
Ho, Osmir! art thou near me?

Osmir
(advancing).
Yes, my lord.

Mah.
Hast thou been list'ning too?

Osmir.
Yes, Sultan; and I find your Mussulmen
Their arms preparing for to-morrow's battle,
Beneath your royal standard most determin'd
To conquer or to die.
They under your approving eye will fight,
As in the sunshine of propitious heaven.

Mah.
Yes, I am in their minds full truly grown
A thing of gen'ral attributes composed—
A heaven of sunshine or of lowering storms:
But as a man and leader, in whom live
The mental and corporeal qualities
Of Mahomet—Pest seize the stupid slaves! Enter Petronius and Marthon muffled up in cloaks.

But who comes here? twice on my rounds already
Those men have cross'd me: am I known to them?
By the great Prophet they shall bear their secret
Where secrets are secure!—Ho! stop slaves there!
Stop, in the Sultan's name!

[Running upon them furiously, and lifting his scimitar over the head of Petronius, who immediately discovers himself.
Pet.
Crush not a worm, my lord.

Mah.
A worm indeed! What treason brings ye here,
Skulking, thus muffled up in dark disguise?
Have I not warn'd ye both that ye do live
Beneath mine iron power in strictest faultlessness?
For that when ye are found but to transgress
The galling limits of imposed duty
Even a hair's breadth, there abideth you
A recompense more dreadful than torn slaves,
Writhing in horrid ecstasy, e'er knew.
Beware: ye have no power to serve me now,
And unsuccessful traitors are most hateful.

Pet.
It is, great Mahomet, to make amends
For unsuccessful services, that here
Thou findst us, on our way within the city
To gain for thee some useful information
Against to-morrow's push. Still in our power
Some little aid remains.

Mah.
If thou sayst true, return to me again,
Leading thy beauteous daughter in thy hand,
Ere two hours pass, who shall within my tent
A pledge remain for thy suspicious faith
Until the city's ta'en.—Begone, I charge you,
And answer not again.
[Exeunt Petronius and Marthon.
Are all my orders issued for the morrow?
To each respective officer assign'd
His task and station? and my rearward troops,
My axe and cord-men, they are not forgotten?

Osmir.
No, please your highness, nothing is forgotten.
And by the early dawn—

[A mixture of confused distant sounds heard from the city.
Mah.
What sounds are these?

Osmir.
Hast thou forgot we are so near the city?
It is the murm'ring night sounds of her streets,
Which the soft breeze wafts to thine ear, thus softly
Mix'd with the chafings of the distant waves.

Mah.
(eagerly).
And let me listen too! I love the sound!
Like the last whispers of a dying enemy
[Listening.
It comes to my pleased ear.
Spent art thou, proud imperial queen of nations,
And thy last accents are upon the wind.
Thou hast but one voice more to utter; one
Loud, frantic, terrible, and then art thou
Amongst the nations heard no more. List! list!
I like it well! the lion hears afar
Th' approaching prey, and shakes his bristling mane,
And lashes with his tail his tawny sides,
And so hear I this city's nightly sound.

Osmir.
It is indeed a rich and noble conquest
Which heaven unto its favour'd warrior gives.

Mah.
Yes, Osmir; I shall wear a conqu'ror's name,
And other ages shall of Mah'met speak,
When these dumb slaves are crumbling in the dust.
But now the night wears on, and with the dawn
Must the grand work begin.
Yet one thing still remains; I must remind thee
That to my gen'ral orders this be added:—
Silent shall be the march; nor drum, nor trump,
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe
Our near approach betray; silent and soft,
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands,
Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey.

Osmir.
I have already given the strictest orders.

Mah.
Then all is well: go where thy duty calls.
In the meanwhile I'll snatch an hour of rest,
And dream, perhaps, that lovely Grecian dames,
Even with a crowned beauty in their band,
Are lowly bent to kiss my purple feet.
[A distant bell heard from the city.
What deep and distant bell is this which sounds
So solemnly on the still air of night?

Osmir.
It comes from St. Sophia's lofty dome,
Where Constantine, with his small band of friends,
As I have learnt, should at this hour assemble.
To join together in religious rites
Of solemn preparation for to-morrow,
Which they regard as their last day of life,
And this as their last act of social brotherhood.

Mah.
Brave men! do they so meet?
[Pausing.
But it must be.
Why should it move me? Heaven decrees their doom:
I act by high commission, though for instruments
I have but these dumb slaves.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A pillared aisle or open space in the church of St. Sophia, with other parts of the church seen in perspective. The great bell heard. Enter Heugho, met by an inferior priest.
Priest.
Thou com'st before thy master and his friends:
How far are they behind?

Heugho.
Not many paces.

[Bell sounds again.
Priest.
Wherefore didst thou start?

Heugho.
It smote mine ear most strange and dolefully.
Is there soul in its sound which sadly says,
It is the last bell that shall Christians warn
To holy rites within these fated walls?
How many hundred years this sacred pavement
Has with the tread of Christian feet been worn!
And now—Heaven's will be done!

Priest.
So must we say, if that our turn be come.
We are a wicked and luxurious race,
And we have pull'd this ruin on our heads.

Heugho.
But there are those who needs must fall beneath it,
Whose noble worth deserved a better fate.

Priest.
Think ye the grand assault will be so soon?

Heugho.
'Tis so believed: and see where now they come,
In gen'rous love and brotherhood united,
Who shall, perhaps, no more see evening's close,
Or under social roof of living men
E'er meet again.

Priest.
Nay, do not weep, good Heugho;
For in that blessed place they shall be join'd
Where great and good men meet.—But I must haste
To give my brethren notice.

[Exit.
Enter Constantine, with Othus, Rodrigo, Justiniani, and others of his friends, who walk with solemn steps and bareheaded towards the front of the stage, the great bell sounding for the last time as they advance. Constantine then stops, and stretching out his arm as if he wished to speak, they all gather respectfully round him.
Con.
My friends, there greatly presses on my heart
Somewhat I've much desired to say to you,
If a full heart will grant me so much voice.

Othus.
Then speak it, royal sire, we all attend
With ears of love and most profound respect.

Con.
Thus station'd on a dark and awful verge,
In company with you, my noble friends,
I have desired, in this solemn act,
To make my peace with God. But, on my soul,
If any unforgiven wrong to man
Yet rests, how shall I lift my hands to Him
Who has made all men, and who cares for all,
As children of one grand and wondrous house,
Wherein the mightiest monarch of the earth
Holds but a little nook?
I have been one, placed on a giddy height
Of seeming greatness, therefore liable,
In nature's poor infirmity, to acts
Of blind and foolish pride. I have been one
In much real feebleness, upheld, defended,
By voluntary aid and gen'rous zeal
Of valiant strangers owing me no service;
And therefore liable, in the mind's weakness,
Its saddest weakness, to ungrateful thoughts
Tinctured with jealousy. If towards you,
My noble friends, I have contracted guilt,
I trust—I know—I beg—what shall I say?
Your gen'rous hearts to all your deeds of love
Will add a last forgiveness.

Othus.
O no, most royal Constantine! to us
And to all men thou'st ever worthy been,
Noble and gracious; pardon at our hands
Thou needest none.

Omnes.
O no, thou needest none!
As we to thee have faithful followers been,
Thou'st ever been to us a gen'rous lord.

Con.
Your love would make it so: would that, indeed,
A voice within me seal'd its fair report!
Alas! it doth not; therefore now indulge me.
If there be one amongst you, unto whom,
With dark forbidding brow, in a stern moment,
I've given ungen'rous pain; one whose kind service
I have with foolish and capricious humours
More irksome made; one whose frank openness
Of manly love, offer'd to me as man
In gen'rous confidence, with heartless pride
I coldly have repell'd; yea, if there be
One of you all that ever from my presence
I have with sadden'd heart unkindly sent,
I here, in meek repentance, of him crave
A brother's hand, in token of forgiveness.
And be it in true charity stretch'd forth,
As to a man of much infirmity,
Who has with many trials been beset,
Wounding ofttimes in bitterness of soul
The love he should have honour'd.
What! is there none that will to me hold out
The palm of charity?
Then I'll embrace you all, and, with eased heart
Believe myself forgiven.
[Embracing them all as they crowd affectionately to him, and coming last to Rodrigo.
And thou, my bold Rodrigo, who canst brave
The tempests when they rage, and onward bear,
With the opposed strength of towering navies
Black'ning before thee, com'st thou to my breast
In soft forgiving love? I know thou dost.

Rod.
Ay, in that love that would forgive to thee
The sum of all thy sins, though multiplied
Ten thousand thousand fold.—
That would do in thy service—O cursed limit!
That there should be what to man's sinew'd strength,
In all the burning zeal of righteous boldness,
Impossible is.

[Clenching his hands vehemently.
Othus
(to Rodrigo).
Cease! dost thou not respect these holy walls?

Rod.
I do respect them, Othus; ne'er a head,
Shorn to the scalp, doth bow itself more humbly
Before heaven's throne than mine, albeit in truth
My words unseemly are.

Con.
Come to my heart, my friend! He reigns above
Who will forgive us both.
[Embraces Rodrigo, and then observing Heugho, who has stood behind, not presuming to approach him with the rest.
But there is one who stands from me aloof
With modest backwardness, unto whose charity
I must be debtor also. Worthy Heugho,
Since earliest youth I from thy friendly hand
Have daily kindly offices received,
Proffer'd with love, exceeding far all duty
Belonging to thy state; yet, ne'ertheless,
I once, in a most vile and fretful mood,
Vex'd with cross things, thine honour'd age forgot.

Heugho.
Oh, say not so, my dear and royal master.
It breaks my heart that you should still remember.

Con.
Well, well, be not thus moved, my worthy Heugho,
I know I am forgiv'n; but lay thy hand,
Thine aged hand, upon thy master's head,
And give him a last blessing. Thou art now
Like to an ancient father with us grown,
And my heart says that it will do me good.
[Bowing his head, whilst Heugho, lifting up his aged hands over him, is unable to speak, but bursts into tears, and falls upon his master's neck. The band of friends close round and conceal them: afterwards they open to make way, and Constantine comes forward with a firm enlightened countenance.
And now, my noble friends, it pleases me
To think we all are knit in holy bands
Of fellowship; prepared, in virtue's strength,
Nobly to fight on earth, or meet in heaven.

Othus.
Yes, Constantine, we to each other will
True brothers prove, and to our noble chief
Devoted followers, whate'er betide.
What say ye, valiant friends?

Omnes.
All, all of us!

Con.
I know you will, full well, I know you will.
Oh, that on earth it had been granted me
Your gen'rous love to've recompensed! alas!
Ye can but share with me—

Omnes.
No other recompense,
But sharing fates with thee, our noble chief,
Do we desire, and on thy royal hand
Here will we seal it.

Con.
(eagerly preventing them as they are about to kneel and kiss his hands).
Forbear! forbear! within these sacred walls
Bend before worthless man the humble knee!
Fy, let not such shame be!
Am I your chief? then be it shown in this,
That to the mighty Majesty of heaven
I humbly bow, more lowly than ye all,
And do, on your behalf, devoutly beg
The blessing of our Master and our Sire.
[Kneeling and bowing his head very low to the ground, then rising afterwards with dignified solemnity.
Now to those sacred rites of our blest faith,
In which the humble soul ennobled bows,
In mem'ry of the dearest brothership
That ever honour'd man, I lead you on,
My noble brothers.

[Exeunt Constantine, &c., by another aisle, which may be supposed to lead to the altar of the church, whilst several priests are seen at a distance in their robes, as if waiting to receive them.

SCENE III.

A hall, or ante-room in the imperial palace.
Enter Petronius and Marthon disguised.
Pet.
So far hath this well-counterfeited signet,
And this disguise, befriended us: here stop:
Whilst Constantine and his mad band are absent
On their religious ceremony, here
We will remain conceal'd until that Ella,
Returning (for 'tis near her wonted time,
As they have told us) from Valeria's chamber,
Shall give us fair occasion.—Rouse thee, Marthon;
Thou seemst like one bereaved of all sense;
What is the matter with thee?

Mar.
Nothing; but thus to pass with culprit feet
Beneath the shade of night, these well-known courts,
Which I so oft have trod in front of day,
With the firm footsteps of an honest man,
Doth make me—

Pet.
Fy! thou art become a fool.
Shake off such weakness: we're compell'd to this.
We shall beneath the Sultan's iron sway,
Disgraced from the late failure of our plots,
Live like lash'd slaves, if the bewitching beauty
Of my young Ella come not to our aid
To bend his rugged nature. Strong in her,
We shall not merely safe protection find,
But highest favour and authority;
And though by stealth I needs must bear her hence,
Being my daughter, I, in nature's right—

Mar.
Hush! now I hear a lightly-sounding step.
Draw back a little space.

[They step aside, whilst Ella enters, and walks across the stage.
Pet.
(in a half voice, stealing softly up to her).
Ella!

Ella
(starting).
What voice is that which names me?

Pet.
Ella!

Ella.
Oh! 'tis the sound that I most dread to hear!

Pet.
Sayst thou so, Ella, of thy father's voice?
Have my misfortunes, with the world's fair favour,
Deprived me also of my only child?

Ella.
No, no! they have not: had misfortune only
Cast its dark shade upon thee, I had loved thee
And cherish'd thee in a lone desert, father!
But—but thou art—

Pet.
Ha! wherefore dost thou pause?
What wouldst thou say? what is there in thy mind?

Ella.
Thoughts which I will not utter—Oh, depart!
Thou'rt not in safety. All men do condemn thee.
Thou art not come for good.—Oh, fly from hence!
Ruin, and shame, and death abide thee here:
Oh, fly, my wretched father!

Pet.
Yes I will fly, but thou shalt go with me;
If not, I will remain and meet my fate.

Ella.
Good heaven forbid! thou'lt drive me to distraction.
O misery!

[Wrings her hands in great distress, whilst Marthon advances to Petronius with supplicating look.
Pet.
(to Marthon).
Away! thou art a fool: we must be firm.
(To Ella.)
Wring not thy hands thus wildly, simple maid:
Thou goest to be with me no wand'ring outlaw,
But one in splendour greater than a queen:
The favour'd mistress of the mighty Sultan.

[Ella gives a loud shriek, and struggles to escape from him.
Enter Rodrigo.
Rod.
Audacious villain! quit thy cursed hold,
Or take death for thy pains.
Ha! thou shrinkst back, and mufflest up thy face.
Say who thou art, or through thy villain's heart
I'll thrust this rapier.

Ella
(pulling Rodrigo back).
Hold, I do beseech thee.
For pity, hold! it is my wretched father.

Rod.
Wretched indeed!

Ella.
Ay, therefore pity him.
Let him escape: he hath done me no harm.
He is here as a fox in his last wiles,
Who shelter seeks within the very kennel
Of the roused pack: Oh, have some pity on him!
He is my father.

Rod.
Sweet Ella, hang not thus upon mine arm:
It hath no power to strike whom thou callst father,
Shame as he is unto that honour'd name.
But there are ties upon me, gentle maid:
The safety and the interests of Constantine
I am bound to defend: and shall a traitor—

Ella.
Oh! oh!

Rod.
Fear not: our royal master is return'd
From blessed rites of holiest charity
With meekly chasten'd soul: whate'er his crimes
He is in safety—safety as assured
As thine own harmless self.

Enter Constantine.
Con.
(to Rodrigo).
Thou speakst with an unwonted earnestness;
I've mark'd thy gestures; something moves thee much.
Who are these strangers?
[Turning to Petronius and Marthon, who, uncovering their faces, stand confessed before him.
Ha! Marthon and Petronius! What new treason
Is now on foot, that here—but judge I harshly?
Ye are, perhaps, struck with the circumstances
Of these most solemn times, repentant grown,
And if ye be, in a good hour ye come;
I am myself a wean'd and pardon'd man.
Marthon, thou once wast wont to speak the truth;
What brought you hither?

Mar.
Most gracious prince, with no repentant mind
We hither came; but one of us, at least,
Shall hence depart with a heart deeply smitten.

Con.
Confess then what new treason ye devised.

Ella.
No treason; none to thee, most royal Constantine.
For me he came, arm'd with a parent's right,
To bear me to the haughty Sultan's camp,
To live in queenly state. But, Oh protect me!
Let me remain and die with those I love
In decent maiden pride. Retain me here,
But pardon him: no treason brought him hither.

Con.
Petronius, has thy daughter told me true;
Was this thine errand?

Pet.
(approaching Constantine).
Yes, most gracious prince.

Con.
Off then, disgrace to nature and to manhood!
Wouldst thou to shameful and degrading slavery
Betray thy virtuous child? Say thou cam'st hither
To thrust i' the dark thy dagger through my heart,
And I will call thee sinless.

Pet.
Wherefore this stern and bitter execration?
I came to place her but a few hours sooner,
Saved from th' approaching storm, where your high dames,
Yea, with their royal mistress at their head,
Full shortly shall be placed.

Con.
Detested wretch! what fiend has whisper'd to thee
Such hideous thoughts? man durst not utter them.

Pet.
Man might, at least, surveying the position
And aspect of these times, in his own mind
This plain and shrewd conjecture form. But not
On such loose bottom do I ground my words;
Mah'met himself hath sworn that your Valeria
Shall at the head of his most favour'd wives—

Con.
Hold thy detested tongue! for one word more
Is instant death. Tempt me not with these hands,
Which hath the symbols touch'd of blessed peace,
To do a horrible act.

Pet.
I but repeat that which the Sultan hath
In public said.

Con.
Forbear! forbear! I tell thee.
[Wrenching his sword, scabbard and all, from his side, and tossing it from him.
There! there! Rodrigo: cast it from my reach:
Let not a weapon be within my grasp,
Or I shall be accursed.
[After a violent struggle of passion.
I dare speak to him now.—Ho! guards without!

Ella.
Oh, mercy! mercy!

Enter Guards.
Con.
(to guards).
Take these two men, Petronius and his friend,
And through the city to our outmost post
Conduct them safely: there, in perfect liberty,
Permit them to depart where'er they list.
(To Petronius.)
Now, I'm revenged upon thee: get thee hence,
And utter not a word.—Go thou, Rodrigo,
And with the gentle Ella in thy hand,
Conduct them to the palace gate. Hence quickly!

Mar.
Nay, let Petronius go: I will remain,
And with the meanest soldier on your walls
Spend my last blood, if a true penitent—

Con.
(waving him off impatiently).
Well, be it as thou wilt: but hence and leave me!

Rod.
(to Ella, as he leads her out).
Did I not tell thee he was safe, my Ella?

[Exeunt all but Constantine, who, after walking up and down for some time in a perturbed manner, starts at the sound of Valeria 's voice without.
Con.
Ha! here she comes! alas! how shall I now
Look on her face, and hear her voice of love!
It is distraction!

Enter Valeria.
Val.
My Constantine, art thou so long return'd,
And yet to me no kindly summons sent,
Long as I've watched for it? What is the matter?
Thy brow is dark: these are disturbed looks:
What is the matter?

Con.
Nothing, nothing.
I am, thou knowst, with many cares perplex'd.
Follow me to thine own apartment; here
I cannot speak to thee.

Val.
(aside, looking eagerly at him as they go out.)
What may this be?

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Valeria 's apartment.
Enter Constantine, followed by Valeria, who both remain silent for some time, she looking anxiously with wistful expectation.
Val.
Now we are here, my lord, in the still privacy
Of this my inmost bower, but thou art silent.
[Pauses, and he is still silent.
There is a look of sadness on thy face
Of disturb'd wretchedness, that never yet,
E'en in thy darkest hours, I've seen thee wear.
Why art thou thus?

Con.
And dost thou ask? I've been, in deep humility,
Making a sinner's peace with God and man,
And now—and now—

[His voice faltering.
Val.
What would you say, my lord?

Con.
And now I am with thee.

Val.
And art thou sad for this? hast thou not still,
Loose from all shackles of imposed state,
Been with me in thine hours of joy or grief,
Like a way-faring man, who sitting down
On the green bank, his cumbrous vestment opens
To the soft breeze?

Con.
Yes, my Valeria; I have been with thee
As with a true yoked heart, so strong in love,
That e'en the thought, which scudded o'er my mind
With culprit's speed from shameful consciousness,
Was not from thee conceal'd.
But now the hour is come, when e'en with thee
I must perform a task—a task of pain.

Val.
Speak; what meanst thou?

Con.
All have, e'en in the dearest intercourse
Of heart with heart, in some untoward moment
Transgressors been, and proved the cause of pain
Where most they should have banish'd it: and all,
In quitting earthly ties, do anxiously
Desire, in the true blessing of forgiveness,
To part with those whom they have held most dear.
Now dost thou understand me?

[Holding out both his hands to her.
Val.
I do! I do! thou hast my dearest blessing;
The dearest thoughts and worship of my heart.
But oh! what dost thou say?—part!—how, my Constantine!
Where dost thou go? thou dost not leave the city?

Con.
No, love, but on its wall I go ere long,—
For in a little hour the day will break
Which must its fate decide,—that part to act,
Which, before God and man, in honest pride,
I'm call'd on to perform.

Val.
But from those walls victorious thou'lt return.
[Constantine smiles sorrowfully.
Nay, but thou shalt return: high heav'n decrees it;
Virtue, and every good and blessed thing
Have made it sure. E'en in a faith as strong
As at this moment I do hold to this,
Methinks, upon the chafed and tossing waves
Of the wild deep I could thus firmly tread,
Nor wet my sandal's thong.
[Walking across the stage with firm steps of stately confidence, and then going up to him with an encouraging smile.
Be thou assured!
I know it shall be so. A mystic sage,
Whom I, unknown to thee, have visited—
Pardon this weakness of thine anxious wife—
Darting his eye on forms of woven air,
Saw thee in combat with a Turkish champion,
And saw the crescent fall.

Con.
And mayst thou not believe, that ere they close
Their mortal warfare, many a boastful Turk
Beneath these arms shall fall?

Val.
Ay, but on surer words I rest my faith!
For I did bid him onward cast his eye
Into time's reach, and say, who of this city,
After the course of twelve revolving moons,
Should be the sov'reign lord; and he replied,
In plain and simple words, thy lord and husband.

Con.
And named he Constantine?

Val.
What other name but that of Constantine
Could to these appellations be conjoin'd?
Thou turnest from me with perturbed looks:
Thou shalt not turn away: tell me! O, tell me!
What sudden thought is this that troubles thee?

[Catching hold of him eagerly as he turns from her.
Con.
Ask not; Oh, do not ask! 'tis pass'd already
As shoots a glaring meteor 'thwart the night,
Frightful but hasty.

Val.
Thou must tell it me.

Con.
Distract me not.

Val.
Nay, nay, but thou must tell me.
What other name but that of Constantine
Could to my lord and husband joined be?

Con.
(sinking down upon a chair quite overcome, and covering his face with his hands, as he speaks with a quick perturbed voice).
Mahomet! Mahomet!
[Valeria steps back from him, holding up her hands in amazement; then he, after a pause, looking up to her with a self-upbraiding eye.
I have offended in this very hour
When my press'd soul sigh'd for that loving peace
Which in its earthly close the soul desires.
I have offended.

Val.
Yes, thou hast offended.
All the offences thou hast ever done me
Are in this fell and cruel stroke comprised;
And any other stroke, compared to this.
Had fall'n upon me lightly.

Con.
It was a thought that hasted fast away,
And came unbidden.

[Going up to her penitently.
Val.
(turning away in anger).
There is no thought doth ever cross the mind,
Till some preceding kindred sentiment
Hath made a pathway for it.

Con.
Yes, my Valeria, thou indeed sayst true;
But turn not from me angrily. My mind,
Ere now, consider'd has the character,
The faith, the power of Mahomet.—Frown not.—
Valeria, thou art fair.—Nay, do not frown!

Val.
What dost thou say? hast thou until this moment
Reserved for me this base degrading—No:
Torn and defaced be every hated form
Of outward grace! it is our curse, our shame!

[Tearing her hair violently.
Con.
O be not thus!—forgive a hasty thought!
Think how a doating husband is distracted,
Who knows too well a lawless victor's power.

Val.
What is his power? it nought regardeth me.

Con.
Alas! the frowns of a detesting bride
Deter him not!

Val.
(smiling contemptuously).
But will he wed the dead?

Con.
(starting).
What sayst thou? Oh, what meaning is there here!
Yes, yes! I know it all! but it is dreadful:
It makes the cold chill o'er my limbs to creep:
It is not well: it is not holy. No!
O no, my noble love, mine honour'd love!
Give to thy fallen lord all that the soul
To widow'd love may give, but oh, stop there!
Heav'n will protect thee in the hour of need;
And for the rest, erase it from thy thoughts,
Give it no being there.

Val.
It hath no being there. Heav'n will protect me:
And he who thinks me helpless thinks me mean.

Con.
I think thee all that e'er was tenanted
Of noblest worth in loveliest female form:
By nature excellent, defective only
In this, that fortune has thy virtues link'd
To the vex'd spirit of a ruin'd man,
Who in his hours of anguish has not prized them
As did become their worth.

Val.
(rushing into his arms).
No, thou hast prized them,
In thy blind love, far, far beyond their worth.
My uncurb'd passions have alas! too oft
Vexation added to that burden'd heart
I should have cheer'd and lighten'd: on my head
Rests all the blame that e'er between us pass'd,
And I alone have need to be forgiven.

[They weep on one another's necks without speaking, when an alarm bell is heard at a distance, and Constantine breaks suddenly from her.
Con.
It is the 'larum of my farther watch.

Val.
I scarcely heard it: art thou sure of it?

[A second alarm bell heard nearer.
Con.
And hark! a nearer tower repeats the sound.
The enemy's in motion.—I must arm,
And instantly.

Val.
Then let me be with thee till the last moment!
I have a holy relic of great power;
It is, I trust, worth all thine arms beside;
And from this hand of love thou shalt receive it.

Con.
(smiling sorrowfully).
Thanks, sweet Valeria! from thy hand of love
I will with love receive whate'er thou wilt.
[A third alarm bell is heard still louder, and enter attendants in haste.
Yes, yes, I heard it; go, prepare mine arms.

[To attendants, and exeunt.

SCENE V.

A spacious hall in the palace.
Enter Rodrigo, with Ella hanging fondly upon him, and continue their way as if intending to pass through it, when a trumpet sounds without, and they stop short.
Rod.
It is the sound that summons us to meet:
There is no farther grace: therefore, sweet Ella,
My pretty Ella, my good loving Ella,
My gentle little one, that hangst upon me
With such fond hold, in good sooth we must part,
Here bid heav'n bless me, and no farther go.

Ella.
Must it be so? I will bid heaven bless thee,
And all good saints watch o'er thy precious life;
And they will bless and guard thee in the hour
Of fearful death. In this I have true faith;
Yet, on the very brink, to hold thee thus
Clasp'd in my grasp, and think how soon—Alas!
From many points will fly the whizzing balls,
And showering darts, and jav'lins sent afar,
Aim'd by fell strength; wilt thou escape all this?

Rod.
Fear not, sweet Ella! whizzing balls there be,
That, in midway, are from their course declined
By the poor orphan's little lisped prayer;
And there be arrows that are turn'd aside,
In their swift flight, by the soft sighs of love,
Unheard of earthly ears. This is a creed,
In the good faith of which poor seamen climb
Their rocking masts, in the full roar of battle,
And we'll believe it.

Ella.
It is a blessed one: I would believe it.

Rod.
Yes, we'll believe it. Whilst our battle roars,
Thou'lt think of me in thy lone distant tower,
And be to me a gallant armed mate,
With prayers and wishes striving powerfully.
Give me thy hand: we will not weep and wail:
We will part cheerfully.—God bless thee, Ella!
Nay, hang not on me thus.
Thou lov'st a brave man: be thou valiant then,
As suits a brave man's love.

Ella.
O no! I've fondly fix'd myself upon thee,
Most worthless and unsuited to thy worth.
Like a poor weed on some proud turret's brow,
I wave, and nod, and kiss the air around thee,
But cannot be like thee.

Rod.
Heav'n bless thee, little flower! I prize thee more
Than all the pride of female stateliness.

Ella.
Dost thou? then I am happy: I am proud:
I will not wish me other than I am.

Rod.
Ah, if we part not instantly, my Ella,
I feel in faith, rude as my nature is,
I soon shall be like thee!—My friends approach:
Let us not meet their gaze—It must be so—
Sweet one, farewell!—Wilt thou still cling to me?

Ella.
O no, I go: they shall not see thee weep,
Though I do bless thee for it.

Rod.
(leading her hastily back to the door by which they entered).
Well then, brave lass, upon thy lovely head
Heaven's favour rest!—Nay, do not speak to me.
[Preventing her as she is endeavouring to speak.
Farewell! farewell!
[Exit Ella, and he returns to the front of the stage, where he stands musing sorrowfully; when enters to him Justiniani, and, going up to him, touches his shoulder.
What dost thou want?

[Turning angrily.
Jus.
Thou'rt thoughtful.

Rod.
No, I think as others do
With such day's work before them, in good truth,
Not passing merrily.

Jus.
From the high tower I've seen th' approaching foe:
It seems a dark and strangely-mixed mass
Of life, wide moving in the misty light
Of early dawn.—I've fought in many a field,
As valiant men and armed warriors fight,
But such a strange assemblage of new modes
Of mingled war as we this day must face,
I never yet encounter'd.

Rod.
Well, we shall know the scent and flavour of it,
When we have tasted it.

Jus.
We shall be smother'd up with the mean press
Of worthless matter, as a noble steed,
Beneath the falling rafters of his shed
Ignobly perishes.

Rod.
Fear not, proud soul; we shall have men to fight,
And room enough in some nook of the breach
To grapple with them too.

Jus.
Good fortune ever shone on thee, Rodrigo:
Thou still hast been a bold careering bark,
Outriding ev'ry storm. If thou shouldst e'er
Again return to our dear native land,
Tell to my countrymen whate'er thou knowst
Pertaining to my fate this fateful day:
Let me not be forgotten.

Rod.
I will, my friend: but better fate than thine
I look not for, though still I bear myself
As one assured of good.—Thou'rt dark and gloomy—
Does aught rest on thy mind?

Jus.
(striding away from him gloomily).
No, nothing, nothing!

[A trumpet sounds without.
Rod.
Ay, hark! another of our gallant band
Has join'd us with his followers.
[Another trumpet sounds.
And now another: are they all assembled?

Enter Othus, and several of the imperial friends.
Othus.
On their high wooden turrets, and huge beams
Of warlike engines, raised aloft in air,
Gleams the first light of this high-fated day;
And, wide expanded, through the farther mists
Moves the dark Turkish host.
Thou'rt a tried soul, Rodrigo, I but new
To such tremendous, strange expectancy:
Now is the hour when the soul knows itself.

[Rising on tiptoe with a conscious smile.
Rod.
Ay, Othus, thou dost wear the countenance
Of a true man: give me thine honest hand.
Are all our friends assembled?

[Trumpet sounds.
Othus.
This says they are: and here comes, last of all,
Our northern friends. Enter more of the friends.

Now we are all assembled. Constantine,
He also comes; and sadly by his side,
In mournful dignity, moves his high dame,
Proudly contending with her woman's heart.

Enter Constantine and Valeria, attended.
Con.
(returning the general salute of the chiefs).
Good morrow, noble brothers and brave leaders:
Are we all here convened?

Othus.
Yes, our great chief and brother: of your friends
There lacks not one.

Con.
Then to their love, so help me, Mighty Power,
Who holdst within thy grasp the souls of men!
Neither shall we be lacking.—Now, Valeria.

[Drawing himself up with a proud but tender smile, as if to encourage her to behave nobly.
Val.
I understand that smile.
Here with thy gen'rous friends, whose love to thee
Most dearly cell'd within my heart I wear,
And unto whom I have desired much,
Before we part, these grateful thanks to pay—
[Making grateful obeisance to the chiefs.
Here to those noble friends, and to God's keeping,
I leave thee.—Yet, be it permitted me—
For that thy noble head and lib'ral brow
Have ever cheer'd me as my star of day,
Blessings and blessings let me pour upon them!
[Putting her hand upon his head fervently, and kissing his forehead.
For that thy gen'rous breast has been the hold
Of all my treasured wishes and dear thoughts,
This fond embrace.
[Embracing him.
Yea, and for that thou art
My sire, and sov'reign, and most honour'd lord,
This humble homage of my heart receive!

[Kneeling and kissing his hand.
Con.
(raising and embracing her with great emotion).
No more, my dearest and most noble love!
Spare me, O spare me! Heaven be thy protection!
Farewell!

Val.
Farewell!

[Valeria is led off by her attendants, whilst Constantine continues looking sadly after her for some time, then turning to his friends, who gather about him, without saying a word, they go all off the stage together in profound silence.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

An open space near the walls of the city, with halfruined houses on each side, and a row of arched pillars thrown across the middle of the stage, as if it were the remains of some ruined public building; through which is seen, in the background, a breach in the walls, and the confused fighting of the besieged, enveloped in clouds of smoke and dust. The noise of artillery, the battering of engines, and the cries of the combatants heard as the curtain draws up, and many people discovered on the front of the stage, running about in great hurry and confusion, and some mounted upon the roofs of the houses overlooking the battle.
Voice
(calling from the wall).
See! see! how, cluster'd on each other's backs,
They mount like swarming bees, or locusts link'd
In bolt'ring heaps! Pour fire upon their heads!

2d voice.
Cast down huge beams upon them!

3d voice.
Hurl down the loosen'd fragments of our wall!

4th voice.
Ho! more help here! more stones! more beams! more fire!
Weapons are useless now.

1st voice.
See how that giant Turk, like an arch fiend,
Climbs on you living mountain of curved backs!
He gains the wall! O hurl him headlong down!
He is hurl'd down.

[A great shout from the besieged.
2d voice.
Send to the emperor or to Rodrigo:
They on their diff'rent stations hold it bravely;
This is the weakest point. Ho! send for aid!

[Exeunt several soldiers from the walls, as if running for succour. The noise of artillery, &c. is heard as before, and afterwards a loud crash as of some building falling. Enter many people in great terror from the walls, running off by the front of the stage different ways, and enter at the same time Constantine and some of his friends, who stop them.
Con.
Turn, turn! O turn, my friends! another push!
Let us still stop the breach, or fall like men.
[Enter Justiniani from the walls with a hasty and disordered step, pale and writhing with pain.
Merciful heav'n! do mine eyes serve me truly?
Justiniani, with pale haggard face,
Retiring from his post!
Where are you going, chief!

[Stopping him sternly.
Just.
Where nature, urged beyond the pith of nature,
Compels me. 'Midst yon streams of liquid fires,
And hurling ruins and o'erwhelming mass
Of things unknown, unseen, uncalculable,
All arms and occupation of a soldier
Are lost and turn'd to nought: man's strength is nought:
The fangs of hell are in my new-torn flesh:
I must on for a space and breathe fresh air.

Con.
Go to! this moment is the quiv'ring ridge
That stands between our success or our ruin:—
The sight of thy turn'd back from their screw'd pitch
Will turn more hearts than all the pressing foe:
Thou must not go.

Just.
I am a mortal man:
The fangs of fiends are in my new-torn flesh:
Nature compels me, and I must have succour.

[Exit hastily, and writhing with pain.
Con.
Alas! God pity him! one luckless moment
Of weakness and of anguish brings to him
A wound that cannot be up-bound. Poor nature!
[Enter many fugitives from the walls.
Turn, turn! O soldiers! let not this shame be! [To the fugitives.
[As he is endeavouring with his friends to rally them and push forward, a terrible shout is heard, and enter a great crowd of fugitives from the walls.

What shout was that?

Fugitive.
The Turks have gained the breach, and through it pour
Like an o'erboiling flood.

Con.
Then is the city lost—the dark hour come—
And as an emperor my task is closed.
God's will be done!
[Throwing away the imperial purple.
Now is there left for me these sinew'd arms,
And this good sword, the wherewithal to earn
A noble soldier's death.
Come on with me who will, and share the fate
Of a brave comrade.

A fugitive
(joined by several others).
Yes, we'll share thy fate,
Comrade or sov'reign, noble Constantine!
We will die by thy side.

[Exit Constantine, followed by his friends and several of the fugitives, and passing through the pillars to the background, rushes amidst the confusion of the fight. A terrible noise of arms, &c. and presently one of the pillars in the middle of the stage falling down, a wider view of the battle is opened, and the Turks are seen rushing through the breach, and bearing every thing before them.
Re-enter Constantine wounded, but still fighting bravely, though oppressed with numbers, and falls down near the front of the stage, the enemy passing on and leaving him.
Con.
Am I then left?
Oh, is there ne'er a Christian soldier near me
That will cut off my head? Ho! thou Turk there!

[To a Turk who is going to pass him.
Turk.
Art thou not dead?

Con.
No, one half of me, Turk, is living still,
[Raising himself half up from the ground.
And still a match for thee.

Turk.
Ha! sayst thou so? we'll put it to the proof.
Yet thou'rt a brave man, though thou art a Greek,
I would far rather let thee die in peace.

Con.
No, no! have at thee!
[Pushing at the Turk with his sword, who, turning against him as he is half raised from the ground, thrusts him through the body.
I thank thee, friendly foeman, this will do:
Thou hast done me good service.

Turk.
And thou art welcome to it. Fare thee well!
A good death to thee! for thou art no Greek.

[Exit.
Con.
Ay, this will do: this hath the true stern gripe
Of potent speedy death. My task is closed.
I now put off these weeds of flesh and blood,
And, thanks be unto Him who clothed me in them!
Untarnish'd with disgrace. What cometh after
Full surely cometh well. 'Tis a dark pass.—
[Catching at a dropped garment that has been left by some of the fugitives on the ground near him.
Here is a ready shround to wrap my head:
This death deals shrewdly with me.

[Covers his face and dies, after a considerable struggle.
Enter Rodrigo, Othus, and Marthon, with two or three of their followers, fighting bravely with a party of Turks, whom they beat off the stage.
Othus.
Now for a space those ruffians stand aloof:
This is a pause that calls upon the mind:
What shall we do?

Rod.
How do men act, when they together stand,
On the last perch of the swift-sinking wreck?
Do they not bravely give their parting cheer,
And make their last voice loud and boldly sound
Amidst the hollow roarings of the storm?
E'en so will we: we'll bear our manhood up
To the last push.

Othus.
Thou speakest well, brave seaman: thou dost speak
What the heart owns: we will do even so.
But oh, that our brave leader now were near us,
Living or dead! Doth no one know his fate?
I thought by him to have died.

1st fol.
What corpse is this so cover'd? on its sandal
It wears th' imperial bird in fretted gold.

Othus.
Then it is he!
[Tearing off the covering eagerly from the head of Constantine.
O thou brave heart! thou hast gone to thy rest
With honour. Heav'n be praised that thou hast!
Here round thee our last gathering point shall be:
Here will we fight, nor shall thy honour'd body
Suffer, whilst one of us has strength to fight,
The slightest insult.

Rod.
Ay, they shall hack us into raven's meat,
Ere on his gallant corpse there be impress'd
One touch of impious hands!

[A loud noise of shrieking and terror heard without.
Othus.
Hear the wild cries of terror and despair,
Mix'd with the din of carnage! Now those cowards,
Who let this brave man all unaided perish,
Are suff'ring that which, in his fellest pinch,
The valiant never suffers.
But see, the enemy again returns
With doubled fury!

Rod.
Come they? then we are ready for them. Yonder
Stands a small walled dome, within whose portal
We for a time may face ten thousand foes:
There will we take our stand, and there will we
Do our last deeds of men. Come on, brave mates!
Take up our honour'd treasure; and, so burden'd,
He that doth grapple with us had as lief
Pull from the lion's hug his bosom'd whelp.

[The followers take up the body, and Othus and Rodrigo retire, defending it bravely from a party of Turks, who enter and fall upon them as they are bearing it off.

SCENE II.

An apartment in one of the towers of the palace.
Enter Valeria in great alarm, followed by Lucia and attendants.
Val.
Louder and louder still the dreadful sound
Of battle swells. Is it not nearer us?
This lofty tower the widest view commands;
Open that lattice quickly.
[Pointing to a window which Lucia opens, and then, rushing on eagerly to look, shrinks back again.
I pray thee look thyself, mine eyes are dark,
And I see nothing. Oh, what seest thou?
Tell me, whate'er it be.

Lucia
(looking out).
Nothing but clouds of smoke and eddying dust:
A dun and grumly darkness spreads o'er all,
From which arise those horrid sounds, but nought
Distinctive of the sight can I discern.

Val.
(after pacing backward and forward with an unequal, restless, agitated step).
Oh, will this state of tossing agony
No termination have! Send out, I pray thee,
Another messenger.

Lucia.
Indeed I have in little space of time
Sent many forth, but none return again.

Val.
In little space! Oh it hath been a term
Of horrible length! such as rack'd fiends do reckon
Upon their tossing beds of surgy flames,
Told by the lashes of each burning tide
That o'er them breaks. Hark! the quick step of one
With tidings fraught! Dost thou not hear it?

Lucia.
No;
I hear it not.

Val.
Still is it the false coinage of my fears?
Ah! hearing, sight, and every sense is now
False and deceitful grown. I'll sit me down,
And think no more, but let the black hour pass
In still and fixed stupor o'er my head.

[Sits down upon a low seat, and supports her bended head upon both her hands.
Lucia
(listening).
Now I do hear the sound of real feet
In haste approaching.

Val.
(starting up).
Some one brings us tidings.
What may they be? Quick steps should bring us good. Enter Messenger.

Say all thou hast to say, and say it quickly.
If it be good, hold up thy blessed hand,
And I will bless the token. No, thou dost not!
'Tis evil then. How is it with my lord?
What dangers still encompass him?

Mes.
No dangers.

Val.
And dost thou say so with that terrible look?
Is he alive? Have all deserted him?

Mes.
No, round his body still some brave men fight,
And will not quit him till they be as he is.

[Valeria, uttering a loud shriek, falls back into the arms of her attendants, and is carried off, followed by Lucia and the messenger.

SCENE III.

A hall in the palace.
Enter a crowd of frightened women, and seem hurrying on to some place of greater security.
1st woman
(stopping).
No, we are wrong; we'll to the eastern tower,
That is the most retired; that last of all
Will tempt their search.

2d woman.
In the deep vaulted caverns of the palace,
Might we not for a while conceal'd remain,
Till heav'n shall send us means?

Omnes.
Ay, thou art right; that is the best of all:
We'll to the vaults.

[As they are all turning and hurrying back again, enter a domestic officer of the palace, and stops them.
Offi.
Where do ye run with such wild looks of fear?
Think ye the Turks are passing through the city,
Like the short visit of a summer's storm,
That you in holes and rocks may safely hide
Until it be o'erblown?

1st woman.
Oh, no! we know that they are come for ever!
Yet for a little while we fain would save us
From fearful things.

Offi.
I come to tell you that by Mah'met's orders
The cruel Turks have stopp'd their bloody work,
And peace again is in our walls.

1st woman.
Sayst thou?
And art thou sure of this? and hast thou seen it?

Offi.
Yes, I have seen it. Like a sudden gleam
Of fierce returning light at the storm's close,
Glancing on horrid sights of waste and sorrow,
Came the swift word of peace, and to the eye
Gave consciousness of that which the wild uproar
And dire confusion of the carnage hid.

1st woman.
Alas! be there such sights within our walls?

Offi.
Yes, maid, such sights of blood! such sights of nature!
In expectation of their horrid fate,
Widows, and childless parents, and lorn dames,
Sat by their unwept dead with fixed gaze,
In horrible stillness.
But when the voice of grace was heard aloud,
So strongly stirr'd within their roused souls
The love of life, that, even amidst those horrors,
A joy was seen—joy hateful and unlovely.
I saw an aged man rise from a heap
Of grizly dead, whereon, new murder'd, lay
His sons and grandsons, yea, the very babe
Whose cradle he had rock'd with palsied hands,
And shake his grey locks at the sound of life
With animation wild and horrible.
I saw a mother with her murder'd infant
Still in her arms fast lock'd, spring from the ground—
No, no! I saw it not! I saw it not!
It was a hideous fancy of my mind:
I have not seen it.
But I forget my chiefest errand here.

1st woman.
And what is that!

Offi.
It is to bid you tell your royal mistress,
It may, perhaps, somewhat assuage her grief,
That Othus and Rodrigo, with some followers,
The last remains of the imperial band,
Fighting, in all the strength of desperation,
Around the body of their fallen chief,
Have moved to gen'rous thoughts the Sultan's breast;
Who has their valour honour'd with full leave,
In blessed ground, with military pomp,
Becoming his high state and valiant worth,
To lay his dear remains. This with their lives
On honourable terms he freely grants.

1st woman.
And do those brave men live?

Offi.
They do; but Othus soon I fear will be
With him he mourns.—Delay no more, I pray:
Inform the empress speedily of this.

1st woman.
Alas! she is not in a state to hear it:
The phrenzy of her grief repels all comfort.—
But softly!—hush!—methinks I hear her voice.
She's coming hither in the restless wand'rings
Of her untamed mind.—Stand we aside,
And speak not to her yet.

Enter Valeria with her hair dishevelled, and in all the wild disorder of violent sorrow, followed by Ella and Lucia, who seem endeavouring to soothe her.
Val.
Forbear all words, and follow me no more.
I now am free to wander where I list;
To howl i' the desert with the midnight winds,
And fearless be amidst all fearful things.
The storm has been with me, and I am left
Torn and uprooted, and laid in the dust
With those whom after-blasts rend not again.
I am in the dark gulf where no light is.
I am on the deep bed of sunken floods,
Whose swoln and welt'ring billows rise no more
To bear the tossed wreck back to the strand.

Lucia.
Oh, say not so! heav'n doth in its good time
Send consolation to the sharpest woe.
It still in kindness sends to the tried soul
Its keenest suff'rings. So say holy men;
And therein good men trust.

Val.
I hear, I hear thee! in mine ear thy voice
Sounds like the feeble night-fly's humming noise,
To him, who in the warfare of vex'd sleep,
Strives with the phantoms of his inward world.
Yes, there is comfort when the sun is dark,
And time hath run his course, and the still'd sleepers
Lift up their heads at the tremendous crash
Of breaking worlds.—I know all this.—But here,
Upon this living earth, what is there found?
It is a place of groans and hopeless woe.
Let me then tear my hair and wring my hands,
And raise my voice of anguish and despair,
This is my portion now, all else is gone.

Lucia.
Nay, think not virtuous innocence forsaken:
Put in high heav'n thy trust, it will sustain thee.

Val.
Ah! I did think when virtue bravely stood,
Fronting its valiant breast to the fierce onset
Of worthless power, that it full surely stood:
That ev'ry spiritual and righteous power
Was on its side: and in this faith, ofttimes,
Methought I could into the furnace mouth
Have thrust my hand, and grasp'd the molten flames.
Yet on his head it fell: that noble head,
Upon whose manly gracefulness was fix'd
The gaze of ev'ry eye.
Oh! on his lib'ral front there beam'd a look,
Unto the which all good and gen'rous hearts
Answer return'd.—It was a gentle head,
Bending in pleasant kindliness to all;
So that the timid, who approach'd him trembling,
With cheer'd and vaunting steps retired again.
It was a crowned head, yet was it left
Exposed and fenceless in the hour of danger:
What should have been his safety was his bane.
Away, poor mock'ry of a wretched state!
[Tearing the regal ornaments from her neck, and scattering them about.
Be ye strew'd to the winds! But for this let
We had been blest; for he as truly loved,
In simplest tenderness. as the poor hind,
Who takes his humble house-mate by the hand,
And says, “this is my all.”—Off, cursed band!
Which round our happiness hath been entwined
Like to a straggling cord: upon the earth
Be thou defaced and trampled!

[Tearing the tiara from her head and stamping upon it, then pacing up and down distractedly.
Lucia.
Alas! my royal mistress, be entreated!
This furious grief will but enhance its pain:
Oh, bear yourself as more becomes your state!

Val.
Yes, I will bear me as becomes my state.
I am a thing of wretchedness and ruin.
That upon which my pride and being grew
Lies in the dust, and be the dust my bed.
[Throwing herself upon the ground, and pushing away Lucia and her other attendants, who endeavour to raise her up again.
Forbear! forbear! and let me on the ground
Spread out my wretched hands! It pleases me
To think that in its bosom is a rest—
Yea, there lie they unheeded and forgotten,
To whom all tongues give praise, all hearts give blessing.
Oh, ev'ry heart did bless him though he fell,
And ne'er a saving hand was found—Oh! oh!

[Bursting into an agony of grief, and laying her head upon the ground, covered with both her hands.
Ella
(to Lucia and attendants).
Do not surround her thus! I'll sit and watch her.
I will not speak, but sit and weep by her;
And she shall feel, e'en through her heavy woe,
That sympathy and kindness are beside her.

Val.
(raising her head).
There spoke a gentle voice: is Ella near me?

Ella.
Yes, I am near, and shall be ever near you.

Val.
Wilt thou? I do believe, sweet maid, thou wilt.
Lay thy soft hand on mine.—Yes, it feels kindly.
Had he, thy valiant love, been near his lord—
Ay, they did love each other with that love
Which brave men know—Oh, ev'ry noble stranger,
In admiration of his noble worth,
Did call him lord; whilst they, his native subjects,
They who had seen him grow within their walls,—
Alas! where lightly tripp'd his infant steps;
Where in gay sports his stripling's strength was tried;
Where tower'd in graceful pride his manly bloom;
Even there a lifeless, ghastly form he lies.

Enter another domestic officer, and, seeing Valeria on the gr ound, steps back.
Lucia
(to the officer).
What wouldst thou here?

Offi.
I must, perforce, speak my unwelcome tidings.
The Sultan is already in the palace,
And follows hard my steps with a fix'd purpose
To see the empress.

Val.
(raising herself half from the ground).
What fearful words are these? in my soul's anguish
Comes this so quickly on me? Be it so!
I cleave to th' earth! what have I now to do?
I am a stilled thing, abased and crush'd;
What boots it now who gazes on my woe?

Enter Mahomet with Osmir and his train.
Mah.
(to Osmir, after looking at Valeria steadfastly).
She stirs not, Osmir, e'en at my approach,
She sits upon the ground, unmoved and still.
Thou sorrow-clouded beauty, not less lovely
[Going up to her.
For this thy mournful state!—She heeds me not.
Empress and sov'reign dame, unto those titles
Which thou shalt ever wear, vouchsafe regard.
(To Osmir.)
Still she regards me not.
(After a pause.)
Widow of Constantine—

Val.
(rousing herself quickly).
Ay, now thou callest on me by a name
Which I do hear. There is strength in the sound
To do all possible things!
[Rising quickly from the ground, and accosting Mahomet with an air of high assumed state.
What wouldst thou say to her who proudly wears
That honour'd title?

Mah.
Widow of Constantine; I come not here
In the stern spirit of a conqu'ror.
The slaughter of your people, by my order,
Is stopp'd; and to your bravely fallen lord
I have decreed such fun'ral obsequies
As suit a valiant warrior and a king.
Othus, and brave Rodrigo, and those men
Who to the last their master's corpse defended,
I have with honour graced.—Lacks there aught still
That, from the dark cloud which so deeply shades
That awful beauty, one approving ray
Might softly draw? Speak, and it shall be done.

Val.
Ask aught from thee!

Mah.
Yes, whatsoe'er thou wilt:
For now too well I feel I have no power
That can oppose thy will.

Val.
I give you thanks: I have a thing to ask.

Mah.
Name it, and it is granted.

Val.
A place in the quiet tomb with my fall'n lord,
Therein to rest my head. This is my boon.

Mah.
Well, and it shall be granted, fair Valeria,
When that fair form is fitted for such rest.
But whilst—

[Approaching her with an air of free admiration.
Val.
(putting him at a distance haughtily).
No more:—I do not ask it sooner.
Yet that it be a sealed deed between us,
Permit me here to put into your hands
A mark'd memorial. Some few paces off
It is deposited; I will return
And give it to you instantly.

[Exit, attended by Lucia, Ella, &c.
Mah.
(to Osmir, looking after her as she goes out).
See, with what awful loveliness she moves!
Did all our bower'd prisons e'er contain
Aught like to that?

Osmir.
It does indeed a wondrous mixture seem
Of woman's loveliness with manly state;
And yet, methinks, I feel as though it were
Strange, and perplexing, and unsuitable.
'Tis not in nature.

Mah.
Thinkst thou so, good vizir?
Thou'rt right, belike, but it is wondrous graceful.
[A loud shriek of women heard without.
What shrieks are these? Run thou and learn the cause.

[Osmir going, is prevented by Valeria, who re-enters with her robe wrapped across her breast, and supported by Lucia, and Ella, and her other attendants, who seem in great affliction round her.
Val.
(speaking as she enters).
Mourn not; the thing is past that was to be.
Conduct me to the Sultan: I have still
Strength to fulfil my task.

Mah.
Great Prophet! what is this? (To Valeria.)
What hast thou done?

Val.
Brought thee the mark'd memorial of my right.
[Showing a dagger.
And that I now am fitted for that rest,
The honour'd rest which you have granted me,
Being the fix'd condition of your promise,
Here is the witness.

[Opening her robe, and showing the wound in her breast.
Mah.
O sad and cruel sight! Is there no aid?
O live, thou wondrous creature, and be aught
Thy soul desires to be!

Val.
(after sinking back into a seat, supported by her attendants).
I now am what my soul desires to be,
And what one happy moment of strength wound
Beyond the pitch of shrinking nature makes me;
Widow of Constantine, without reproach,
And worthy to partake the honour'd rest
Of the brave lord whose living love I shared,
As shares the noble wife a brave man's love.

Mah.
Prophet of God, be there such ties as these!

Enter Rodrigo, and Othus wounded and supporting himself feebly upon his sheathed sword.
Val.
And here come, in good time, my living friends:
I shall once more those gen'rous men behold,
The sad remains of those who loved their lord.
[Holding out a hand to each of them.
You know, brave brothers, how it is with me;
For such you were to him, and such to me
My heart now truly owns you.

Othus.
Yes, we have heard: they told us as we enter'd.
Most noble woman, worthy of thy lord!

[Endeavouring feebly to kneel and kiss her hand, whilst Rodrigo does so on the other side of her.
Val.
This day's rough tempest's o'er, my good Rodrigo,
And thou still liv'st to strive in other storms:
Heaven's high blessing and my dying thanks
Rest on thy gen'rous worth!—I would say more,
But now I feel I may not.
Where art thou, Ella?
[Putting Ella 's hand in his.
Here do I return
The trust thou gavest me; and if the Sultan
Will yet to me one last request vouchsafe,
He will confirm this gift.

Mah.
It is confirm'd.

Val.
I thank you, gracious victor.
Heaven bless you both!
[To Ella and Rodrigo, who both kneel and kiss her hands.
Othus, the dead go to their silent rest,
[To Othus, looking fixedly at him.
And are no more remember'd: but thy lord—
He whom thou lovedst—he whom all hearts loved—
He who so noble and so gentle was—
Well skill'd art thou to paint the deeds of men—
Thou wilt not suffer him to be forgotten?
What means that woeful motion of thy head?
Mine eyes wax dim, or do I truly see thee?
Thy visage has a strange and ghastly look:
How is it with thee?

Othus.
As one who standeth at the city's gate,
Through which his earlier friends have pass'd, and waits
Impatiently, girt in his traveller's robe,
To hear the welcome creaking of its bars.

Val.
Ah! art thou wounded then? Alas! alas!
Art thou too of our company? sad trav'llers
Unto a world unknown!

Othus.
Nay, say not sad, though to a world unknown.
The foster'd nursling, at th' appointed season,
Who leaves his narrow crib and cottage-home
For the fair mansion of his lordly sire,
Goes to a world unknown.

Val.
Ay, thou wouldst cheer me, and I will be cheer'd.
There reigns above who casts His dark shade o'er us,
Mantling us on our way to glorious light.
I have offended, and I should be fearful,
But there is sent in mercy to my heart,
For which I humbly give—O no, I may not!
Death is upon me now.—Ella and Lucia:
Stand closer to me: let me firmly grasp
Something that I have loved!
[Catching hold of them with a convulsive grasp.
It will soon cease:
Farewell unto you all! [Dies.
[A solemn pause, all standing round and gazing upon the body.


Othus.
And this is the last form that we do wear,
Unto the sad and solemn gaze of those
Who have beheld us in our days of joy.
Honour and deepest rev'rence be to thee,
Thou honour'd dead!

[Bowing respectfully to the body.
Mah.
Great God of heav'n! was this a woman's spirit
That took its flight?

Rod.
Let ev'ry proudest worship be upon her,
For she is number'd with the gallant dead!
Not in the trophied field, nor sculptured dome;
No, nor beneath the dark and billowy deep
Lies one, o'er whom the valiant living would
With truer zeal their lofty banners wave,
Or bid the deep-mouth'd cannon nobly tell
How brave men mourn the brave.
How is it, Othus? something in thine eye
Of joyous sadness looks upon me wistfully.

[To Othus, who takes him tenderly by the hand.
Othus.
Dost thou not guess?—But I would speak to thee
Of a brave soldier, who, in one short moment
Of nature's weakness, has a wound received
That will unto his life as fatal prove
As fellest foeman's thrust: who in his rest
Will not be mourn'd as brave men mourn the brave.
Justiniani in his cave of shame—

Rod.
And therein let him perish!
He hath disgraced a soldier's honest fame:
He hath disgraced the country of his birth:
He hath—It makes me stamp upon the ground
To think that one, who grasp'd with brother's hand
The noble Constantine, should basely turn.
Name not his cursed name!

Othus.
Art thou so stern? In a lone cave he groans,
On the damp earth, in deepest agony
Of the soul's shrewdest sufferings. I have
By an old soldier been advised of this,
And I would go to him, but that I feel
I needs must go where a more powerful call
Doth summon me.

Rod.
(softened).
Ah! must thou then so soon, my gen'rous Othus!
Must thou so soon? Well, ask whate'er thou wilt:
I give my chafed passion to the winds.
Ah! goest thou? Do I the last remain
Of those who loved the noble Constantine?
The last of a brave band? Alas! alas!

[Embracing Othus tenderly.
Osmir
(to Mahomet, who strides up and down in gloomy agitation).
Most mighty Mahomet, what thus disturbs you?
May not your slave in humble zeal be told?

Mah.
Away! away! thy humble zeal I know;
Yea, and the humble zeal of such as thou art.
The willing service of a brave man's heart,
That precious pearl, upon the earth exists,
But I have found it not.
[Turning to Othus and Rodrigo.
Ye valiant men who have so served your prince,
There still is in the world a mighty monarch,
Who, if he might retain you near his throne,
Shall he say near his heart, in such dear zeal?
Would think his greatness honour'd.

Othus.
Great Sultan, thou hast conquer'd with such arms
As power has given to thee, th' imperial city
Of royal Constantine; but other arms,
That might the friends of Constantine subdue,
Heav'n has denied thee.

Rod.
No, mighty prince; they who have served for love
Cannot like flying pennons be transferr'd
From bark to bark.

Mah.
(impatiently).
I understand you well, and you are free.
My arms, such as they are, of heav'n are bless'd;
That is enough.

Othus.
That were indeed enough; but heaven ofttimes
Success bestows where blessing is denied.
A secret spirit whispers to my heart,
That in these walls your weaken'd wretched race,
Slaves of their slaves, in gloomy prison'd pomp,
Shall shed each other's blood, and make these towers
A place of groans and anguish, not of bliss:
And think not when the good and valiant perish
By worldly power o'erwhelm'd, that heav'n's high favour
Shines not on them.—Oh, no! then shines it most.
For then in them it shows th' approving world
The worth of its best work.
And from their fate a glorious lesson springs;
A lesson of such high ennobling power;
Connecting us with such exalted things
As all do feel, but none with such true force,
Such joy, such triumph, as a dying man.

[Falling back into the arms of Rodrigo.

THE FAMILY LEGEND:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., WHOSE FRIENDLY ZEAL ENCOURAGED ME TO OFFER IT TO THE NOTICE OF MY INDULGENT COUNTRYMEN. I INSCRIBE THIS PLAY.

MEN

• Maclean, chief of the clan of that name.
• Earl of Argyll.
• John of Lorne, son to Argyll.
• Sir Hubert de Grey, friend to Lorne.
• Benlora, the kinsmen and chief vassals of Maclean.
• Lochtarish, the kinsmen and chief vassals of Maclean.
• Glenfadden, the kinsmen and chief vassals of Maclean.
• Morton.
• Dugald.
• Piper, fishermen, vassals, &c.

WOMEN

• Helen, daughter of Argyll, and wife of Maclean.
• Rosa.
• Fisherman's wife.

Scene in the Island of Mull, and the opposite coast, &c., and afterwards in Argyll 's castle.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Before the gate of Maclean's castle, in the Isle of Mull: several Highlanders discovered crossing the stage, carrying loads of fuel; whilst Benlora is seen on one side, in the background, pacing to and fro, and frequently stopping and muttering to himself.
1st high.
This heavy load, I hope, will be the last:
My back is almost broken.

2d high.
Sure am I,
Were all the beeves in Mull slain for the feast,
Fuel enough already has been stow'd
To roast them all: and must we still with burdens
Our weary shoulders gall?

Enter Morton.
Mor.
Ye lazy lubbards!
Grumble ye thus?—Ye would prefer, I trow,
To sun your easy sides, like household curs,
Each on his dung-hill stretch'd, in drowsy sloth.
Fy on't! to grumble on a day like this,
When to the clan a rousing feast is giv'n,
In honour of an heir born to the chief—
A brave Maclean, still to maintain the honours
Of this your ancient race!

1st high.
A brave Maclean indeed!—vile mongrel hound!
Come from the south, where all strange mixtures be
Of base and feeble! sprung of varlet's blood!
What is our race to thee?

2d high.
(to Morton).
Thou'lt chew, I doubt not,
Thy morsel in the hall with right good relish,
Whether Maclean or Campbell be our lord.

Morton.
Ungracious surly lubbards! in, I say,
And bring your burdens quicker. And, besides,
Where are the heath and hare-bells, from the glen,
To deck my lady's chamber?

2d high.
To deck my lady's chamber!

Morton.
Heartless hounds!
Is she not kind and gentle? spares she aught
Her gen'rous stores afford, when you or yours
Are sick, or lack relief? Hoards she in chests,
When shipwreck'd strangers shiver on our coast,
Or robe or costly mantle?—All comes forth!
And when the piercing shriek of drowning mariners
Breaks through the night, up-starting from her couch,
To snatch, with eager haste, the flaming torch,
And from the tower give notice of relief,
Who comes so swiftly as her noble self?
And yet ye grumble.

1st high.
Ay, we needs must own,
That, were she not a Campbell, fit she were
To be a queen, or e'en the thing she is—
Our very chieftain's dame. But, in these towers,
The daughter of Argyll to be our lady!

Morton.
Out! mountain savages! is this your spite?
Go to!

2d high.
Speakst thou to us? thou Lowland loon!
Thou wand'ring pedlar's son, or base mechanic!
Com'st thou to lord it here o'er brave Macleans?
We'll carry loads at leisure, or forbear,
As suits our fancy best, nor wait thy bidding. [Exeunt highlanders grumbling, and followed by Morton.
[Manet Benlora, who now comes forward, and after remaining some time on the front of the stage, wrapt in thought, not observing Lochtarish, who enters behind him.

Heigh ho! heigh ho, the day!

Loch.
How so? What makes Benlora sigh so deeply?

Ben.
(turning round).
And does Lochtarish ask? Full well thou knowst,
The battles of our clan I've boldly fought,
And well maintain'd its honour.

Loch.
Yes, we know it.

Ben.
Who dared, unpunish'd, a Maclean to injure?
Yea; he who dared but with a scornful lip
Our name insult, I thought it feeble vengeance
If steed or beast within his walls were left,
Or of his holds one tower unruin'd stood.

Loch.
Ay; who dared then to brave us?

Ben.
Thus dealt Benlora e'en with common foes;
But in the warfare of our deadly feud,
When rang the earth beneath our bloody strife,
And brave Macleans brave Campbells boldly fronted,
(Fiends as they are, I still must call them brave,)
What sword more deeply drank the hated blood
Than this which now I grasp—but idly grasp!

Loch.
There's ne'er a man of us that knows it not,
That swears not by thy valour.

Ben.
Until that fatal day, by ambush ta'en,
And in a dungeon kept, where, two long years,
Nor light of day, nor human voice e'er cheer'd
My loneliness, when did I ever yield,
To e'en the bravest of that hateful name,
One step of ground upon the embattled field—
One step of honour in the banner'd hall?

Loch.
Indeed thou hast our noble champion been;
Deserving well the trust our chief deceased,
This chieftain's father, did to thee consign.
But when thou wast a captive, none to head us,
But he, our youthful lord, yet green in arms,
We fought not like Macleans; or else our foe,
By fiends assisted, fought with fiend-like power,
Far—far beyond the Campbells' wonted pitch.
E'en so it did befal:—we lost the day:—
That fatal day!—Then came this shameful peace.

Ben.
Ay, and this wedding; when, in form of honour
Conferr'd upon us, Helen of Argyll
Our sov'reign dame was made,—a bosom worm,
Nursed in that viper's nest, to infuse its venom
Through all our after race.
This is my welcome!
From dungeons freed, to find my once-loved home
With such vile change disgraced; to me more hateful
Than thraldom's murkiest den. But to be loosen'd
From captive's chains to find my hands thus bound!

Loch.
It is, indeed, a vile and irksome peace.

Ben.
Peace, say they! who will bonds of friendship sign
Between the teeming ocean's finny broods,
And say, “Sport these upon the hither waves,
And leave to those that farther billowy reach?”
A Campbell here to queen it o'er our heads,
The potent dame o'er quell'd and beaten men,
Rousing or soothing us, as proud Argyll
Shall send her secret counsel!—hold, my heart!
This, base degen'rate men!—this, call ye peace?
Forgive my weakness: with dry eyes I laid
My mother in her grave, but now my cheeks
Are, like a child's, with scalding drops disgraced.

Loch.
What I shall look upon, ere in the dust
My weary head be laid to rest, heav'n knows,
Since I have lived to see Benlora weep.

Ben.
One thing, at least, thou ne'er shalt live to see—
Benlora crouching, where he has commanded.
Go ye, who will, and crowd the chieftain's hall,
And deal the feast, and nod your grizzled heads
To martial pibrochs, play'd, in better days,
To those who conquer'd, not who woo'd their foes;
My soul abhors it. On the sea-beaten rock,
Remov'd from ev'ry form and sound of man;
In proud communion with the fitful winds
Which speak, with many tongues, the fancied words
Of those who long in silent dust have slept;
While eagles scream, and sullen surges roar—
The boding sounds of ill;—I'll hold my feast,—
My moody revelry.

Loch.
Nay, why so fierce?
Thinkst thou we are a tame and mongrel pack?
Dogs of true breed we are, though for a time
Our master-hound forsakes us. Rouse him forth
The noble chace to lead: his deep-toned yell
Full well we know; and for the opening sport
Pant keenly.

Ben.
Ha! is there amongst you still
Spirit enough for this?

Loch.
Yes, when good opportunity shall favour.
Of this, my friend, I'll speak to thee more fully
When time shall better serve.
Maclean, thou knowst,
Is of a soft, unsteady, yielding nature;
And this, too well, the crafty Campbell knew,
When to our isle he sent this wily witch
To mould, and govern, and besot his wits,
As suits his crafty ends. I know the youth:
This dame or we must hold his will in thraldom:
Which of the two,—But softly: steps approach.
Of this again.

Ben.
As early as thou wilt.

Loch.
Then be it so: some staunch determined spirits
This night in Irka's rocky cavern meet;
There must thou join us. Wear thou here the while
A brow less cloudy, suited to the times. Enter Glenfadden.

See, here comes one who wears a merry face;
Yet, ne'ertheless, a clan's-man staunch he is,
Who hates a Campbell, worse than Ilcom's monks
The horned fiend.

Ben.
Ha! does he so?
[Turning graciously to Glenfadden.
Glenfadden!
How goes it with thee?—Joyous days are these—
These days of peace.

Glen.
These days of foul disgrace!
Com'st thou to cheer the piper in our hall,
And goblets quaff to the young chieftain's health,
From proud Argyll descended?

Ben.
(smiling grimly).
Yes, Glenfadden,
If ye will have it so; not else.

Glen.
Thy hand—
Thy noble hand!—thou art Benlora still.
[Shaking Benlora warmly by the hand, and then turning to Lochtarish.
Know ye that banish'd Allen is return'd—
Allen of Dura?

Loch.
No; I knew it not.
But in good time he comes. A daring knave!
He will be useful.
[After considering.
Of Maclean we'll crave
His banishment to cancel; marking well
How he receives it. This will serve to show
The present bent and bearing of his mind.
[After considering again.
Were it not also well, that to our council
He were invited, at a later hour,
When of our purpose we shall be assured?

Glen.
Methinks it were.

Loch.
In, then; now is our time.

Ben.
I'll follow thee when I awhile have paced
Yon lonely path, and thought upon thy counsel.

[Exeunt Lochtarish and Glenfadden into the castle, and Benlora by the opposite side.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Morton and Rosa, speaking as they enter.
Rosa.
Speak with my lady privately?

Mor.
Ay, please you:
Something I have to say, regards her nearly.
And though I doubt not, madam, your attachment—

Rosa.
Good Morton, no apology: thy caution
Is prudent; trust me not till thou hast proved me.
But oh! watch o'er thy lady with an eye
Of keen and guarded zeal! she is surrounded—
[Looking round the room.
Does no one hear us?—O those baleful looks
That, from beneath dark surly brows, by stealth,
Are darted on her by those stern Macleans!
Ay; and the gestures of those fearful men,
As on the shore in savage groups they meet,
Sending their loosen'd tartans to the wind,
And tossing high their brawny arms where oft
In vehement discourse, I have, of late,
At distance mark'd them. Yes; thou shakest thy head:
Thou hast observed them too.

Mor.
I have observed them oft. That calm Lochtarish,
Calm as he is, the growing rancour fosters:
For, fail the offspring of their chief, his sons
Next in succession are. He hath his ends,
For which he stirs their ancient hatred up;
And all too well his dev'lish pains succeed.

Rosa.
Too well indeed! The very bed-rid crones
To whom my lady sends, with kindly care,
Her cheering cordials,—couldst thou have believed it?
Do mutter spells to fence from things unholy,
And grumble, in a hollow smother'd voice,
The name of Campbell, as unwillingly
They stretch their wither'd hands to take her bounty.
The wizards are in pay to rouse their fears
With dismal tales of future ills foreseen,
From Campbell and Maclean together join'd,
In hateful union.—E'en the very children,
Sporting the heath among, when they discover
A loathsome toad or adder on their path,
Crush it with stones, and, grinding wickedly
Their teeth, in puny spite, call it a Campbell.
Benlora, too, that savage gloomy man—

Morton.
Ay, evil is the day that brings him back,
Unjustly by a Campbell hath he been,
The peaceful treaty of the clans unheeded,
In thraldom kept; from which but now escaped,
He like a furious tiger is enchafed,
And thinks Argyll was privy to the wrong
His vassal put upon him. Well I know
His bloody vengeful nature: and Maclean,
Weak and unsteady, moved by ev'ry counsel,
Brave in the field, but still in purpose timid,
Ofttimes the instrument in wicked hands
Of wrongs he would abhor,—alas, I fear,
Will ill defend the lovely spouse he swore
To love and cherish.

Rosa.
Heavy steps approach:
Hush! see who comes upon us!—sly Lochtarish,
And his dark colleagues.—Wherefore come they hither?

[Morton retires to the bottom of the stage, and enter Lochtarish, Benlora, and Glenfadden.
Loch.
We thought, fair maid, to find the chieftain here.

Rosa.
He is in these apartments.

Loch.
Would it greatly
Annoy your gentleness to tell his honour,
We wait to speak with him upon affairs
Of much concernment?

Rosa.
My service is not wanted; to your wish,
See, there he comes unwarn'd, and with him too
His noble lady.

[Retiring to the bottom of the stage.
Loch.
Ha! there they come! see how he hangs upon her
With boyish fondness!

Glen.
Ah, the goodly creature!
How fair she is! how winning!—See that form;
Those limbs beneath their foldy vestments moving,
As though in mountain clouds they robed were,
And music of the air their motion measured.

Loch.
Ay, shrewd and crafty earl! 'tis not for nought
Thou hither sent'st this jewel of thy race.
A host of Campbells, each a chosen man,
Could not enthral us, as, too soon I fear,
This single Campbell will. Shrewd crafty foe!

Ben.
Hell lend me aid, if heaven deny its grace,
But I will thwart him, crafty though he be!

Loch.
But now for your petition: see we now
How he receives your suit.

Enter Maclean and Helen.
Ben.
(eyeing her attentively as she enters).
A potent foe it is: ay, by my faith,
A fair and goodly creature!

Mac.
Again, good morrow to you, gallant kinsmen:
Come ye to say I can with any favour
The right good liking prove, and high regard
I bear to you, who are my chiefest strength,—
The pillars of my clan?

Ben.
Yes, we are come, Maclean, a boon to beg.

Loch.
A boon that, granted, will yourself enrich.

Mac.
Myself enrich?

Loch.
Yes; thereby wilt thou be
One gallant man the richer. Hear us out.
Allen of Dura, from his banishment—

Mac.
False reiver! name him not.—Is he return'd?
Dares he again set foot upon this isle?

Ben.
Yes, chief; upon this isle set foot he hath:
And on nor isle nor mainland doth there step
A braver man than he.—Lady, forgive me:
The boldest Campbell never saw his back.

Hel.
Nay, good Benlora, ask not my forgiveness:
I love to hear thee praise, with honest warmth,
The valiant of thy name, which now is mine.

Ben.
(aside).
Ha! good Benlora!—this is queenly pride.
(Aloud.)
Madam, you honour us.

Helen.
If so, small thanks be to my courtesy,
Sharing myself with pride the honest fame
Of every brave Maclean.—I'll henceforth keep
A proud account of all my gallant friends:
And every valiant Campbell therein noted,
On the opposing leaf, in letters fair,
Shall with a brave Maclean be proudly match'd.

[Benlora and Glenfadden bow in silence.
Loch.
Madam, our grateful duty waits upon you.
(Aside to Benlora.)
What thinkst thou of her, friend?

Ben.
(aside to Lochtarish).
What think I of her?
Incomparable hypocrite!

Loch.
(aloud).
But to our suit: for words of courtesy
It must not be forgotten.—Chief, vouchsafe:
Benlora here, who from his loathly prison,
Which for your sake two years he hath endured,
Begs earnestly this grace for him we mention'd,
Allen of Dura.
[Aside to Benlora.
Kneel, man; be more pressing.

Ben.
(aside to Lochtarish).
Nay, by my fay! if crouching pleases thee,
Do it thyself.
[Going up proudly to Maclean.
Maclean; thy father put into these hands
The government and guidance of thy nonage.
How I the trust fulfill'd, this castle strengthen'd
With walls and added towers, and stored, besides,
With arms and trophies in rough warfare won
From even the bravest of our western clans,
Will testify. What I in recompense
Have for my service earn'd, these galled wrists
[Pushing up the sleeve from his arm.
Do also testify.—Such as I am,
For an old friend I plainly beg this grace:
Say if my boon be granted or denied.

Mac.
The man for whom thou pleadst is most unworthy;
Yet let him safely from my shores depart:
I harm him not.

Ben.
(turning from him indignantly).
My suit is then denied.
[To Lochtarish and Glenfadden.
Go ye to Dura's Allen; near the shore
He harbours in his aged mother's cot;
Bid him upon the ocean drift again
His shatter'd boat, and be a wanderer still.

Helen
(coming forward eagerly).
His aged mother!
(To Maclean.)
Oh! and shall he go?
No, no, he shall not! On this day of joy,
Wilt thou to me refuse it?
[Hanging upon him with looks of entreaty, till, seeing him relent, she then turns joyfully to Benlora.
Bid your wanderer
Safe with his aged mother still remain,—
A banish'd man no more.

Mac.
This is not well: but be it as thou wilt;
Thou hast prevail'd, my Helen.

Loch. and Glen.
(bowing low).
We thank thee, lady.

[Benlora bows slightly, in sullen silence.
Mac.
(to Benlora).
Then let thy friend remain; he has my pardon.
[Benlora bows again in silence.
Clear up thy brow, Benlora; he is pardon'd.
[Pauses, but Benlora is still silent.
We trust to meet you shortly in the hall;
And there, my friends, shall think our happy feast
More happy for your presence.
[Going up again, with anxious courtesy, to Benlora.
Thy past services,
Which great and many are, my brave Benlora,
Shall be remember'd well. Thou hast my honour,
And high regard.

Helen.
And mine to boot, good kinsman, if the value
You put upon them makes them worth the having.

Ben.
(bows sullenly and retires; then muttering aside to himself as he goes out).
Good kinsman! good Benlora! gracious words
From this most high and potent dame, vouchsafed
To one so poor and humble as myself.

[Exit.
Loch.
(aside to Glenfadden).
But thou forgettest—

Glen.
(aside to Lochtarish).
No; I'll stay behind,
And move Maclean to join our nightly meeting.
Midnight the hour when you desire his presence?

Loch.
Yes, even so; then will we be prepared.

[Exit.
Glen.
(returning to Maclean).
Chieftain, I would some words of privacy
Speak with you, should your leisure now permit.

Mac.
Come to my closet, then, I'll hear thee gladly.

[Exeunt Maclean and Glenfadden.
Helen
(to Rosa, who now comes forward).
Where hast thou been, my Rosa, with my boy,
Have they with wild flowers deck'd his cradle round?
And peeps he through them like a little nestling—
A little heath-cock broken from its shell,
That through the bloom puts forth its tender beak,
As steals some rustling footstep on its nest?
Come, let me go and look upon him. Soon,
Ere two months more go by, he'll look again
In answer to my looks, as though he knew
The wistful face that looks so oft upon him,
And smiles so dearly, is his mother's.
Thinkst thou
He'll soon give heed and notice to my love?

Rosa.
I doubt it not: he is a lively infant,
And moves his little limbs with vigour, spreading
His fingers forth, as if in time they would
A good claymore clench bravely.

Helen.
A good claymore clench bravely!—O! to see him
A man!—a valiant youth!—a noble chieftain!
And laying on his plaided shoulder, thus,
A mother's hand, say proudly, “This is mine!”
I shall not then a lonely stranger be
'Mid those who bless me not: I shall not then—
But silent be my tongue.

[Weeps.
Rosa.
Dear madam, still in hope look forward cheerly.
[Morton comes from the bottom of the stage.
And here is Morton, with some tidings for you:
God grant they comfort you!—I must withdraw:
His wary faithfulness mistrusts my love,
But I am not offended.

[Offering to retire.
Helen.
Nay, remain.
[Beckoning her back.
Say what thou hast to say, my worthy Morton,
For Rosa is as faithful as thyself.

Mor.
This morning, lady, 'mongst the farther cliffs,
Dress'd like a fisher peasant, did I see
The Lord of Lorne, your brother.

Helen.
Ha! sayst thou,
The Lord of Lorne, my brother?—Thou'rt deceived.

Morton.
No, no: in vain his sordid garb concealed him!
His noble form and stately step I knew
Before he spoke.

Helen.
He spoke to thee?

Morton.
He did.

Helen.
Was he alone?

Morton.
He was; but, near at hand,
Another stranger, noble as himself,
And in like garb disguised, amongst the rocks
I mark'd, though he advanced not.

Helen.
Alas, alas, my brother! why is this?
He spoke to thee, thou sayst—I mean my brother:
What did he say?

Morton.
He earnestly entreats
To see you privately; and bids you say
When this may be. Meantime he lies conceal'd
Where I may call him forth at your command.

Helen.
O, why disguised?—Thinkst thou he is not safe?

Morton.
Safe in his hiding-place he is: but yet
The sooner he shall leave this coast, the better.

Helen.
To see him thus! O, how I am beset!
Tell him at twilight, in my nurse's chamber,
I will receive him. But be sure thou add,
Himself alone will I receive—alone—
With no companion must he come. Forget not
To say, that I entreat it earnestly.

Morton.
I will remember this.

Helen.
Go to him quickly then: and, till the hour,
Still do thou hover near him. Watch his haunt,
Lest some rude fisherman or surly hind
Surprise him. Go thou quickly. O, be prudent!
And be not for a moment off the watch.

Morton.
Madam, I will obey you: trust me well.

[Exit.
Helen
(much disturbed).
My brother on the coast; and with him too,
As well I guess, the man I must not see!

Rosa.
Mean you the brave Sir Hubert?

Helen.
Yes, my Rosa.
My noble brother in his powerful self
So strong in virtue stands, he thinks full surely
The daughter of his sire no weakness hath;
And wists not how a simple heart must struggle
To be what it would be—what it must be—
Ay, and so aid me, heaven! what it shall be.

Rosa.
And heaven will aid you, madam, doubt it not.
Though on this subject still you have repress'd
All communing, yet, ne'ertheless, I well
Have mark'd your noble striving, and revered
Your silent inward warfare, bravely held;
In this more pressing combat firm and valiant,
As is your noble brother in the field.

Helen.
I thank thee, gentle Rosa; thou art kind—
I should be franker with thee; but I know not—
Something restrains me here.
[Laying her hand on her heart.
I love and trust thee;
And on thy breast I'll weep when I am sad;
But ask not why I weep.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An apartment in twilight, almost dark; the door of an inner chamber, standing a little ajar, at the bottom of the stage.
Enter John of Lorne and Sir Hubert de Grey, disguised as peasants.
De Grey.
Nay, stop, I pray; advance we not too far?

Lorne.
Morton hath bid us in this place to wait.
The nurse's chamber is adjoining to it;
And, till her light within give notice, here
Thou mayst remain; when I am call'd, thou'lt leave me.

De Grey.
Till thou art call'd! and may I stay to hear
The sweetness of her voice—her footstep's sound;
Perhaps snatch in the torch's hasty light
One momentary vision of that form—
The form that hath to me of earthly make
No fellow? May it be without transgression?

Lorne.
Why shouldst thou not? De Grey, thou art too fearful;
Here art thou come with no dishonest will;
And well she knows thine honour. Her commands,
Though we must yield to them, capricious seem;
Seeing thou art with me, too nicely scrupulous;
And therefore need no farther be obey'd
Than needs must be. She puts thee not on honour.
Were I so used—

De Grey.
'Spite of thy pride, wouldst thou
Revere her still the more.—O, no, brave Lorne,
I blame her not. When she, a willing victim,
To spare the blood of two contending clans,
Against my faithful love her suffrage gave,
I bless'd her; and the deep, but chasten'd sorrow
With which she bade me—Oh! that word! farewell,
Is treasured in my bosom as its share
Of all that earthly love hath power to give.
It came from Helen, and, from her received,
Shall not be worn with thankless dull repining.

Lorne.
A noble heart thou hast: such manly meekness
Becomes thy gen'rous nature. But for me,
More fierce and wilful, sorely was I chafed
To see thy faithful heart robb'd of its hope,
All for the propping up a hollow peace
Between two warlike clans, who will, as long
As bagpipes sound, and blades flash to the sun,
Delighting in the noble sport of war,
Some fierce opponents find. What doth it boot,
If men in fields must fight, and blood be shed,
What clans are in the ceaseless strife opposed?

De Grey.
Ah, John of Lorne! too keenly is thy soul
To war inclined—to wasteful, ruthless war.

Lorne.
The warlike minstrel's rousing lay thou lov'st:
Shall bards i' the hall sing of our fathers' deeds
To lull their sons to sleep? Vain simple wish!
I love to hear the sound of holy bell,
And peaceful men their praises lift to heaven:
I love to see around their blazing fire
The peasant and his cheerful family set,
Eating their fearless meal. But, when the roar
Of battle rises, and the closing clans,
Dark'ning the sun-gleam'd heath, in dread affray
Are mingled; blade with blade, and limb with limb,
Nerve-strain'd, in terrible strength; yea, soul with soul
Nobly contending; who would raise aloft
The interdicting hand, and say, “Be still'd?”
If this in me be sin, may heaven forgive me!
That being am not I.

De Grey.
In very deed
This is thy sin; and of thy manly nature
The only blemish worthy of that name.
More peaceful be, and thou wilt be more noble.

Lorne.
Well, here we will not wrangle for the point.
None in th'embattled field who have beheld
Hubert de Grey in mailed hauberk fight,
Will guess how much that knight in peace delights.
Still burns my heart that such a man as thou
Wast for this weak, unsteady, poor Maclean—

De Grey.
Nay, with contempt, I pray thee, name him not.
Her husband, and despised! O, no, no, no!
All that pertains to her, e'en from that hour,
Honour'd and sacred is.

Lorne.
Thou gen'rous heart! more noble than myself!
I will not grieve thee.—I'll to Helen go,
With every look and word that might betray
Indignant thoughts, or wound her gentle spirit,
Strictly suppress'd: and to her ear will give
Thy gen'rous greetings, and thy manly words
Of cheering comfort;—all most faithfully
Shall be remember'd.

De Grey.
Ay, and my request.

Lorne.
To see the child?

De Grey.
E'en so: to look upon it;—
Upon the thing that is of her; this bud—
This seedling of a flower so exquisite.
[Light is seen in the inner chamber.
Ha! light is in the chamber! moves the door?
Some one approaches. O! but for a moment
Let me behind thy friendly tartans be,
And snatch one glance of what that light will give.
[Conceals himself behind Lorne, who steps some paces back, setting his hand to his side, and tilting his plaid over his arms to favour him; while the door of the inner chamber opens, and Helen appears, bearing a lamp, which she afterwards sets upon a stone slab as she advances.
Her form—her motion—yea, that mantled arm,
Press'd closely to her breast, as she was wont
When chilly winds assail'd.—The face—O, woe is me!
It was not then so pale.

Lorne
(to him, in a low voice).
Begone: begone.

De Grey.
Blest vision, I have seen thee! Fare thee well!

[Exit in haste.
Helen
(coming forward, alarmed).
What sound is that of steps that hasten from us?
Is Morton on the watch.

Lorne.
Fear nothing; faithful Morton is at hand:
The steps thou heardst were friendly.

Helen
(embracing Lorne).
My brother! meet we thus,—disguised, by stealth?
Is this like peace? How is my noble father?
Hath any ill befallen?

Lorne.
Argyll is well;
And nothing ill, my sister, hath befallen,
If thou art well and happy.

Helen.
Speakst thou truly?
Why art thou come? Why thus upon our coast?
O take it not unkindly that I say,
“Why art thou come?”

Lorne.
Near to the opposite shore,
With no design, but on a lengthen'd chase,
A lusty deer pursuing from the hills
Of Morven, where Sir Hubert and myself
Guests of the social lord two days had been,
We found us; when a sudden strong desire
To look upon the castle of Maclean,
Seen from the coast, our eager fancy seized,
And that indulged, forthwith we did agree
The frith to cross, and to its chief and dame
A hasty visit make. But as our boat
Lay waiting to receive us, warn'd by one
Whom well I knew (the vassal of a friend
Whose word I could not doubt), that jealous rancour,
Stirr'd up amongst the vassals of Maclean,
Who, in their savage fury, had been heard
To utter threats against thy innocent self,
Made it unsafe in open guise to venture,
Here in this garb we are to learn in secret
The state in which thou art.—How is it then?
Morton's report has added to my fears:
All is not well with thee.

Helen.
No, all is well.

Lorne.
A cold constrained voice that answer gave:
All is not well.—Maclean—dares he neglect thee?

Helen.
Nay, wrong him not; kind and affectionate
He still remains.

Lorne.
But it is said, his vassals with vile names
Have dared to name thee, even in open clan:
And have remain'd unpunish'd. Is it so?
[Pauses for an answer, but she is silent.
All is not well.

Helen.
Have I not said it is?

Lorne.
Ah! dost thou thus return a brother's love
With cold reserve?—O speak to me, my Helen!
Speak as a sister should.—Have they insulted thee?
Has any wrong—my heart within me burns
If I but think upon it.—Answer truly.

Helen.
What, am I question'd then? Thinkst thou to find me
Like the spoil'd heiress of some Lowland lord,
Peevish and dainty; who, with scorn regarding
The ruder home she is by marriage placed in,
Still holds herself an alien from its interest,
With poor repining, losing every sense
Of what she is, in what she has been? No.—
I love thee, Lorne; I love my father's house:
The meanest cur that round his threshold barks
Is in my memory as some kindred thing:
Yet take it not unkindly when I say,
The lady of Maclean no grievance hath
To tell the Lord of Lorne.

Lorne.
And has the vow,
Constrain'd, unblest, and joyless as it was,
Which gave thee to a lord unworthy of thee,
Placed thee beyond the reach of kindred ties—
The warmth of blood to blood—the sure affection
That nature gives to all—a brother's love?
No, by all sacred things! here is thy hold:
Here is thy true, unshaken, native stay:
One that shall fail thee never, though the while,
A faithless, wavering, intervening band
Seems to divide thee from it.

[Grasping her hand vehemently, as if he would lead her away.
Helen.
What dost thou mean? What violent grasp is this?
Com'st thou to lead me from my husband's house,
Beneath the shade of night, with culprit stealth?

Lorne.
No, daughter of Argyll; when John of Lorne
Shall come to lead thee from these hated walls
Back to thy native home,—with culprit stealth,
Beneath the shades of night, it shall not be.
With half our western warriors at his back,
He'll proudly come. Thy listening timid chief
Shall hear our martial steps upon his heath,
With heavy measured fall, send, beat by beat,
From the far-smitten earth, a sullen sound,
Like deep-dell'd forests groaning to the strokes
Of lusty woodmen. On the watch-tower's height,
His straining eye shall mark our sheathless swords
From rank to rank their lengthen'd blaze emit,
Like streams of shiv'ring light, in hasty change,
Upon the northern firmament.—By stealth!
No! not by stealth!—believe me, not by stealth
Shalt thou these portals pass.

Helen.
Them have I enter'd,
The pledge of peace: and here my place I'll hold
As dame and mistress of the warlike clan
Who yield obedience to their chief, my lord;
And whatsoe'er their will to me may bear,
Of good or ill, so will I hold me ever.
Yea, did the Lord of Lorne, dear as he is,
With all the warlike Campbells at his back
Here hostile entrance threaten; on these walls,
Failing the strength that might defend them better,
I would myself, while by my side in arms
One valiant clan's-man stood, against his powers,
To the last push, with desp'rate opposition,
This castle hold.

Lorne.
And wouldst thou so? so firm and valiant art thou?
Forgive me, noble creature!—Oh! the fate—
The wayward fate that binds thy gen'rous soul
To poor unsteady weakness!

Helen.
Speakst thou thus?
Thus pressing still upon the galled spot?
Thou dealst unkindly with me. Yes, my brother,
Unkindly and unwisely. Wherefore hast thou
Brought to this coast the man thou knowest well
I ought not in mysterious guise to see?
And he himself—seeks he again to move
The hapless weakness I have striv'n to conquer?
I thought him generous.

Lorne.
So think him still.
His wishes tend not to disturb thy peace:
Far other are his thoughts.—He bids me tell thee
To cheer thy gentle heart, nor think of him,
As one who will in vain and stubborn grief
His ruin'd bliss lament,—he bids me say
That he will even strive, if it be possible,
Amongst the maidens of his land to seek
Some faint resemblance of the good he lost,
That thou mayst hear of him with less regret,
As one by holy bands link'd to his kind.
He bids me say, should ever child of his
And child of thine—but here his quivering lip
And starting tears spoke what he could not speak.

Helen.
O noble, gen'rous heart; and does he offer
Such cheering manly comfort? Heaven protect,
And guide, and bless him! On his noble head
Such prosp'rous bliss be pour'd, that hearing of it
Shall, through the gloom of my untoward state,
Like gleams of sunshine break, that from afar
Look o'er the dull dun heath.

Lorne.
But one request—

Helen.
Ha! makes he one?

Lorne.
It is to see thy child.

Helen.
To see my child! Will he indeed regard it?
Shall it be bless'd by him?

Enter Morton in haste.
Morton.
Conceal yourself, my lord, or by this passage
[Pointing off the stage.
The nearest postern gain: I hear the sound
Of heavy steps at hand, and voices stern.

Helen.
O fly, my brother! Morton will conduct thee.
(To Morton.)
Where is Sir Hubert?

Morton.
Safe he is without.

Helen.
Heaven keep him so!
(To Lorne.)
O leave me! I, the while,
Will in, and, with mine infant in mine arms,
Meet thee again, ere thou depart.—Fly! fly!

[Exeunt; Helen into the inner chamber, putting out the lamp as she goes, and Lorne and Morton by a side passage.

SCENE II.

A cave, lighted by flaming brands fixed aloft on its rugged sides, and shedding a fierce glaring light down upon the objects below. Lochtarish, Benlora, Glenfadden, with several of the chief vassals of Maclean, are discovered in a recess, formed by projecting rocks, at the bottom of the stage, engaged in earnest discourse, from which they move forward slowly, speaking as they advance.
Loch.
And thus ye see, by strong necessity,
We are compell'd to this.

1st vas.
Perhaps thou'rt right.

Loch.
Sayst thou perhaps? Dost thou not plainly see
That ne'er a man amongst us can securely
His lands possess, or say, “My house is mine,”
While, under tutorage of proud Argyll,
This beauteous sorceress our besotted chief
By soft enchantment holds?
[Laying his hand on the 1st vassal.
My brave Glenore,
What are thy good deserts, that may uphold thee
In favour with a Campbell?—Duncan's blood,
Slain in his boat, with all its dashing oars
Skirting our shore, while that his vaunting piper
The Campbell's triumph play'd? Will this speak for thee?
[Turning to 2d vassal.
And, Thona, what good merit pleadest thou?
The coal-black steed of Clone, thy moonlight plunder,
Ta'en from the spiteful laird, will he, good sooth!
Neigh favour on thee?
[To 3d vassal.
And my valiant Fallen,
Bethink thee well if fair-hair'd Flora's cries
Whom from her native bower by force thou tookst,
Will plead for thee.—And say ye still perhaps—
Perhaps there is necessity?

1st vas.
Strong should it be, Lochtarish; for the act
Is fell and cruel thou wouldst push us to.

Glen.
(to 1st vas.)
Ha, man of mercy! are thy lily hands
From bloody taint unstain'd? What sights were those
Thou look'dst upon in Brunock's burning tower,
When infants through the flames their wailings sent,
And yet unaided perish'd?

Loch.
(soothingly).
Tush, Glenfadden!
Too hasty art thou.
(To the vassals.)
Ye will say, belike,
“Our safety—our existence did demand
Utter extinction of that hold of foes.”
And well ye may.—A like necessity
Compels us now, and yet ye hesitate.

Glen.
Our sighted seers the fun'ral lights have seen,
Not moving onward in the wonted path
On which by friends the peaceful dead are borne,
But hov'ring o'er the heath like countless stars,
Spent and extinguish'd on the very spot
Where first they twinkled. This too well foreshows
Interment of the slain, whose bloody graves
Of the same mould are made on which they fell.

2d vas.
Ha! so indeed! some awful tempest gathers.

1st vas.
What sighted man hath seen it?

Glen.
He whose eye
Can see on northern waves the found'ring bark,
With all her shrieking crew, sink to the deep,
While yet, with gentle winds, on dimpling surge
She sails from port in all her gallant trim:
John of the Isle hath seen it.

Omnes
(starting back).
Then hangs some evil over us.

Glen.
Know ye not
The mermaid hath been heard upon our rocks?

Omnes
(still more alarmed).
Ha! when?

Glen.
Last night, upon the rugged crag
That lifts its dark head through the cloudy smoke
Of dashing billows, near the western cliff.
Sweetly, but sadly, o'er the stilly deep
The passing sound was borne. I need not say
How fatal to our clan that boding sound
Hath ever been.

3d vas.
In faith thou makest me quake.

2d vas.
Some fearful thing hangs o'er us.

1st vas.
If 'tis fated
Our clan before our ancient foe shall fall,
Can we heav'n's will prevent? Why should we then
The Campbells' wrath provoke?

Ben.
(stepping up fiercely to 1st vassal).
Heav'n's will prevent—the Campbells' ire provoke!
Is such base tameness utter'd by the son
Of one, who would into the fiery pit
Of damned fiends have leapt, so that his grasp
Might pull a Campbell with him?
Bastard blood!
Thy father spoke not thus.

Loch.
(soothingly).
Nay, brave Benlora,
He means not as thou thinkst.

Ben.
If heaven decree
Slaughter and ruin for us, come it then!
But let our enemies, close grappled to us,
In deadly strife, their ruin join with ours.
Let corse to corse, upon the bloody heath,
Maclean and Campbell, stiff'ning side by side,
With all the gnashing ecstasy of hate
Upon their ghastly visages impress'd,
Lie horribly!—For ev'ry widow's tear
Shed in our clan, let matron Campbells howl!

Loch.
Indeed, my friends, although too much in ire,
Benlora wisely speaks.—Shall we in truth
Wait for our ruin from a crafty foe,
Who here maintains this keenly watchful spy
In gentle kindness masked?

Glen.
Nor need we fear,
As good Lochtarish hath already urged,
Her death will rouse Argyll. It will be deem'd,
As we shall grace it with all good respect
Of funeral pomp, a natural visitation.

Loch.
Ay, and besides, we'll swear upon the book,
And truly swear, if we are call'd upon,
We have not shed her blood.

Ben.
I like not this.
If ye her life will take, in open day
Let her a public sacrifice be made.
Let the loud trumpet far and near proclaim
Our bloody feast, and at the rousing sound,
Let every clans-man of the hated name
His vengeful weapon clench.—
I like it not, Lochtarish. What we do,
Let it be boldly done.—Why should we slay her?
Let her in shame be from the castle sent;
Which, to her haughty sire, will do, I ween,
Far more despite than taking of her life.—
A feeble woman's life!—I like it not.

[Turning on his heel angrily, and striding to the bottom of the stage.
Loch.
(aside to Glen.)
Go to him, friend, and soothe him to our purpose.
The fiery fool! how madly wild he is!

[Glenfadden goes to the bottom of the stage, and is seen remonstrating, in dumb-show, with Benlora, while Lochtarish speaks to the vassals on the front.
Loch.
My friends, why on each other look ye thus
In gloomy silence? freely speak your thoughts.
Mine have I freely spoken: that advising
Which for the good—nay, I must say existence,
Of this our ancient clan most needful is.
When did Lochtarish ever for himself
A separate 'vantage seek, in which the clan
At large partook not? Am I doubted now?

2d vas.
No, nothing do we doubt thy public zeal.

Loch.
Then is my long experience o' the sudden
To childish folly turn'd?
Thinkst thou, good Thona,
We should beneath this artful mistress live,
Hush'd in deceitful peace, till John of Lorne,
For whom the office of a treacherous spy
She doth right slily manage, with his powers
Shall come upon us? Once ye would have spurn'd
At thoughts so base; but now, when forth I stand
To do what vengeance, safety, nay, existence,
All loudly call for; even as though already
The enemy's baleful influence hung o'er you,
Like quell'd and passive men ye silent stand.

1st vas.
(roused).
Nay, cease, Loctarish! quell'd and passive men
Thou knowst we are not.

Loch.
Yet a woman's life,
And that a treacherous woman, moves you thus.
Bold as your threats of dark revenge have been,
A strong decisive deed appals you now.
Our chieftain's feeble undetermined spirit
Infects you all: ye dare not stand by me.

Omnes.
We dare not, sayst thou?

Loch.
Dare not, will I say!
Well spoke the jeering Camerons, I trow,
As past their fishing boats our vessel steer'd,
When with push'd lip, and finger pointing thus,
They call'd our crew the Campbell-cow'd Macleans.

Omnes
(roused fiercely).
The Campbell-cow'd Macleans!

2d vas.
Infernal devils!
Dare they to call us so?

Loch.
Ay, by my truth!
Nor think that from the Camerons alone
Ye will such greeting have, if back ye shrink,
And stand not by me now.

Omnes
(eagerly).
We'll stand!—We'll stand!

2d vas.
Tempt us not more. There's ne'er a man of us
That will not back thee boldly.

Loch.
Ay, indeed?
Now are ye men! Give me your hands to this.
[They all give him their hands.
Now am I satisfied.
[Looking off the stage.
The chief approaches.
Ye'know full well the spirit of the man
That we must deal withal; therefore be bold.

Omnes.
Mistrust us not.

Enter Maclean, who advances to the middle of the stage, while Lochtarish, Benlora, Glenfadden, and all the other vassals gather round him with stern determined looks. A pause; Maclean eyeing them all round with inquisitive anxiety.
Mac.
A goodly meeting at this hour convened.
[A sullen pause.
Benlora; Thona; Allen of Glenore;
And all of you, our first and bravest kinsmen;
What mystery in this sullen silence is?
Hangs any threaten'd evil o'er the clan?

Ben.
Yes, chieftain; evil, that doth make the blood
Within your grey-hair'd warriors' veins to burn,
And their brogued feet to spurn the ground that bears them.

Loch.
Evil, that soon will wrap your tower in flames,
Your ditches fill with blood, and carrion birds
Glut with the butcher'd corses of your slain.

Glen.
Ay; evil, that doth make the hoary locks
Of sighted men around their age-worn scalps
Like quicken'd points of crackling flame to rise;
Their teeth to grind, and strained eye-balls roll
In fitful frenzy, at the horrid things,
In terrible array before them raised.

1st vas.
The mermaid hath been heard upon our rocks:
The fatal song of waves.

Glen.
The northern deep
Is heard with distant moanings from our coast,
Uttering the dismal bodeful sounds of death.

2d vas.
The funeral lights have shone upon our heath,
Marking in countless groups the graves of thousands.

Ben.
Yea, chief; and sounds like to thy father's voice
Have from the sacred mould wherein he lies,
At dead of night, by wakeful men been heard
Three times distinctly.
[Turning to Glenfadden.
Saidst thou not thrice?

Glen.
Yes; three times heard distinctly.

Mac.
Ye much amaze me, friends.—Such things have been?

Loch.
Yea, chief; and thinkst thou we may lightly deem
Of coming ills, by signs like these forewarn'd?

Mac.
Then an it be, high heav'n have mercy on us!

Loch.
(in a loud solemn voice).
Thyself have mercy on us!

Mac.
How is this?
Your words confuse and stun me.—Have I power
To ward this evil off?

Omnes.
Thou hast! thou hast!

Mac.
Then God to me show mercy in my need,
As I will do for you and for my clan
Whate'er my slender power enables me.

Omnes.
Amen! and swear to it.

Mac.
(starting back).
What words are these,
With such wild fierceness utter'd? name the thing
That ye would have me do.

Ben.
(stepping out from the rest).
Ay, we will name it.
Helen the Campbell, foster'd in your bosom,
A serpent is, who wears a hidden sting
For thee and all thy name; the oath-bound spy
Of dark Argyll, our foe; the baleful plague
To which ill-omen'd sounds and warnings point,
As that on which existence or extinction—
The name and being of our clan depend;—
A witch of deep seduction.—Cast her forth.
The strange, unnatural union of two bloods,
Adverse and hostile, most abhorred is.
The heart of every warrior of your name
Rises against it. Yea, the grave calls out,
And says it may not be.—Nay, shrink not, chief,
When I again repeat it,—cast her off.

Mac.
Art thou a man? and bidst me cast her off,
Bound as I am by sacred holy ties?

Loch.
Bound as thou art by that which thou regardest
As sacred holy ties; what tie so sacred
As those that to his name and kindred vassals
The noble chieftain bind? If ties there be
To these opposed, although a saint from heav'n
Had bless'd them o'er the cross'd and holy things,
They are annull'd and broken.

Ben.
Ay, Lochtarish;
Sound doctrine hast thou utter'd. Such the creed
Of ancient warriors was, and such the creed
That we their sons will with our swords maintain.

[Drawing his sword fiercely, whilst the rest follow his example.
Mac.
Ye much confound me with your violent words.
I can in battle strive, as well ye know:
But how to strive with you, ye violent men,
My spirit knows not.

Loch.
Decide—decide, Maclean: the choice is thine
To be our chieftain, leading forth thy bands,
As heretofore thy valiant father did,
Against our ancient foe, or be the husband,
Despised, forsaken, cursed, of her thou prizest
More than thy clan and kindred.

Glen.
Make thy choice.
Benlora, wont in better times to lead us
Against the Campbells, with a chieftain's power,
Shall, with the first blast of his warlike horn,
If so he will it, round his standard gather
Thy roused and valiant vassals to a man.

Mac.
(greatly startled).
Ha! go your thoughts to this? Desert me so?
My vassals so desert me?

Loch.
Ay, by my faith, our very women too:
And in your hall remain, to serve your state,
Nor child nor aged crone.

Mac.
(after great agitation).
Decide, and cast her off!—How far the thoughts
To which these words ye yoke may go, I guess not.
(Eagerly.)
They reach not to her life?
[Pauses and looks at them anxiously, but they are silent.
Oh, oh! oh, oh! that stern and dreadful silence!

Loch.
We will not shed her blood.

Mac.
Then ye will spare her?

Loch.
Commit her to our keeping: ask us not
How we shall deal with her.

Mac.
Some fearful mystery is in your words,
Which covers cruel things. O woe the day,
That I on this astounding ridge am poised!
On every side a fearful ruin yawns.
[A voice heard without, uttering wild incoherent words, mixed with shrieks of horror.
What frenzied voice is that?

Enter 4th vassal, as if terribly frightened.
Loch.
(to 4th vas.)
What brings thee hither?

4th vas.
He fixes wildly on the gloomy void
His starting eyeballs, bent on fearful sights,
That make the sinews of his aged limbs
In agony to quiver.

Loch.
Who didst thou say?

4th vas.
John of the Isle, the sighted awful man.
Go, see yourselves: i' the outer cave he is.
Entranced he stands; arrested on his way
By horrid visions, as he hurried hither
Enquiring for the chief.

[Voice heard without, as before.
Loch.
Hark! hark, again! dread powers are dealing with him.
Come, chieftain—come and see the awful man.
If heaven or hell hath power to move thy will,
Thou canst not now withstand us.
(Pausing for him to go.)
Hearst thou not?
And motionless?

Mac.
I am beset and stunn'd,
And every sense bewilder'd. Violent men!
If ye unto this fearful pitch are bent,—
When such necessity is press'd upon me,
What doth avail resistance? Woe the day!
Even lead me where ye will.

[Exit Maclean, exhausted and trembling, leaning on Lochtarish, and followed by Benlora and Glenfadden and vassals; two inferior vassals alone left upon the stage.
1st vas.
(looking after Maclean).
Ay, there he goes; so spent, and scared, and feeble!
Without a prophet's skill, we may foretell,
John of the Isle, by sly Lochtarish taught,
Will work him soon to be an oath-bound wretch
To this their fell design.—Are all things ready?

2d vas.
All is in readiness.

2st vas.
When ebbs the tide?

2d vas.
At early dawn, when in the narrow creek
Near to the castle, with our trusty mates,
Our boat must be in waiting to receive her.

1st vas.
The time so soon! alas, so young and fair!
That slow and dismal death! To be at once
Plunged in the closing deep many have suffer'd,
But to sit waiting on a lonely rock
For the approaching tide to throttle her—
But that she is a Campbell, I could weep.

2d vas.
Weep, fool! think soon how we'll to war again
With our old enemy; and, in the field,
Our good claymores die with their hated blood:
Think upon this, and change thy tears to joy.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The bed-chamber of Maclean.
Enter Maclean, followed by Helen.
Helen.
Ah! wherefore art thou so disturb'd? the night
Is almost spent: the morn will break ere long,
And rest hast thou had none. Go to thy bed:
I pray thee, go.

Mac.
I cannot: urge me not.

Helen.
Nay, try to rest: I'll sit and watch by thee.

Mac.
Thou'lt sit and watch! O woe betide the hour!
And who will watch for thee?

Helen.
And why for me?
Can any harm approach? When thou art near,
Or sleeping or awake, I am secure.

Mac.
(pacing to and fro distractedly).
O God! O God!

Helen.
Those exclamations!
[Going up to him, while he avoids her.
Turnst thou from me thus?
Have I offended? dost thou doubt my faith?
Hath any jealous thought—I freely own
Love did not make me thine: but, being thine,
To no love-wedded dame, bound in the ties
Of dearest sympathy, will I in duty—
In steady, willing, cheerful duty yield.
Yea, and though here no thrilling rapture be,
I look to spend with thee, by habit foster'd,
The evening of my days in true affection.

Mac.
The evening of thy days! alas, alas!
Would heaven had so decreed it!
[Pulling away his hand from hers.
Grasp me not!
It is a fiend thou clingst to.
[A knock at the door.
Power of heaven!
Are they already at the chamber door!

Helen.
Are those who knock without unwelcome?—hush!
Withdraw thyself, and I will open to them.

[Goes to the door.
Mac.
O go not! go not!

[Runs after her to draw her back, when a vassal, rushing from behind the bed, lays hold of him.
Vas.
Art thou not sworn to us? Where is thy faith?

Mac.
I know, I know! the bands of hell have bound me.
O fiends! ye've made of me—what words can speak
The hateful wretch I am!
Hark! hark! she cries!
She shrieks and calls on me!

[Helen 's cries heard without, first near and distinct, afterwards more and more distant as they bear her away; while the vassal leads Maclean forcibly off the stage by the opposite side, he breaks from him, and hastens towards that by which Helen went out.
Vas.
Thou art too strong for me. Do as thou wilt;
But if thou bringst her back, even from that moment
Benlora is our leader, and thyself,
The Campbell's husband, chieftain and Maclean
No more shalt be. We've sworn as well as thou.

[Maclean stops irresolutely, and then suffers the vassal to lead him off by the opposite side.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A small island, composed of a rugged craggy rock, on the front of the stage, and the sea in the background.
Enter two vassals dragging in Helen, as if just come out of their boat.
Helen.
O why is this? Speak, gloomy, ruthless men!
Our voyage ends not here?

1st vas.
It does: and now,
Helen the Campbell, fare thee— fare there well!

2d vas.
Helen the Campbell, thy last greeting take
From mortal thing.

Helen.
What! leave me on this rock,
This sea-girt rock, to solitude and famine?

1st vas.
Next rising tide will bring a sure relief
To all the ills we leave thee.

Helen
(starting).
I understand you.
[Raising her clasped hands to heaven.
Lord of heaven and earth;
Of storms and tempests, and th' unfathom'd deep;
Is this thy righteous will?
[Grasping the hands of the men imploringly
Ye cannot mean it!
Ye cannot leave a human creature thus
To perish by a slow approaching end,
So awful and so terrible! Instant death
Were merciful to this.

1st vas.
If thou prefer it, we can shorten well
Thy term of pain and terror: from this crag,
Full fourteen fathom deep thou mayst be plunged.
In shorter time than three strokes of an oar
Thy pains will cease.

2d vas.
Come, that were better for thee.

[Both of them take her hands, and are going to hurry her to the brink of the rock, when she shrinks back.
Helen.
O no! the soul recoils from swift destruction!
Pause ye awhile.
[Considering for a moment.
The downward terrible plunge!
The coil of whelming waves!—O fearful nature!
[Catching hold of a part of the rock near her.
To the rough rock I'll cling: it still is something
Of firm and desp'rate hold—Depart and leave me.

[Waving her hand for the vassals to go, whilst she keeps close hold of the rock with the other.
1st vas.
Thou still mayst live within a prison pent,
If life be dear to thee.

Helen
(eagerly).
If life be dear!—Alas, it is not dear!
Although the passing fearful act of death
So very fearful is.—Say how, even in a prison,
I still may wait my quiet natural end.

1st vas.
Whate'er thou art, such has thy conduct been,
Thy wedded faith, e'en with thy fellest foes,
Sure and undoubted stands:—Sign thou this scroll,
Owning the child, thy son, of bastard birth;
And this made sure, Lochtarish bade me say
Thy life shall yet be spared.

Helen
(pushing him away with indignation as he offers her the scroll).
Off, off, vile agent of a wretch so devilish!
Now do I see from whence my ruin comes:
I and my infant foil his wicked hopes.
O harmless babe! will heav'n abandon thee?
It will not!—No; it will not!
[Assuming firmness and dignity.
Depart and leave me. In my rising breast
I feel returning strength. Heav'n aids my weakness:
I'll meet its awful will.

[Waving them off with her hand.
1st vas.
Well, in its keeping rest thee: fare thee well,
Helen the Campbell!

2d vas.
Be thy suff'rings short!
(Aside to the other.)
Come, quickly let us go, nor look behind.
Fell is the service we are put upon:
Would we had never ta'en that cruel oath!

[Exeunt vassals.
Helen
(alone, after standing some time gazing round her, paces backwards and forwards with agitated steps, then, stopping suddenly, bends her ear to the ground as if she listened earnestly to something).
It is the sound; the heaving hollow swell
That notes the turning tide.—Tremendous agent!
Mine executioner, that, step by step,
Advances to the awful work of death.—
Onward it wears: a little space removed
The dreadful conflict is.
[Raising her eyes to heaven, and moving her lips, as in the act of devotion, before she again speaks aloud.
Thou art i' the blue coped sky—th' expanse immeasurable;
I' the dark roll'd clouds, the thunder's awful home:
Thou art i' the wide-shored earth,—the pathless desert;
And in the dread immensity of waters,—
I' the fathomless deep Thou art.
Awful but excellent! beneath Thy hand,
With trembling confidence, I bow me low,
And wait Thy will in peace.
[Sits down on a crag of the rock, with her arms crossed over her breast in silent resignation; then, after a pause of some length, raises her head hastily.
Is it a sound of voices in the wind?
The breeze is on the rock: a gleam of sunshine
Breaks through those farther clouds. It is like hope
Upon a hopeless state.
[Starting up, and gazing eagerly around her.
I'll to that highest crag and take my stand:
Some little speck upon the distant wave
May to my eager gaze a vessel grow—
Some onward wearing thing,—some boat—some raft—
Some drifted plank.—O hope! thou quitt'st us never!

[Exit, disappearing amongst the rugged divisions of the rock.

SCENE II.

A small island, from which the former is seen in the distance, like a little pointed rock standing out of the sea.
Enter Sir Hubert de Grey, followed by two fishermen.
De Grey.
This little swarded spot, that o'er the waves,
Cloth'd in its green light, seem'd to beckon to us,
Right pleasant is: until our comrades join,
Here will we rest. I marvel much they stand
So far behind. In truth, such lusty rowers
Put shame upon their skill.

1st fish.
A cross-set current bore them from the track,
But see, they now bear on us rapidly.
(Voices without.)
Holla!

2d fish.
They call to us.—Holla! holla!
How fast they wear! they are at hand already.

De Grey.
Right glad I am: the Lord of Lorne, I fear,
Will wait impatiently: he has already
With rapid oars the nearer mainland gain'd,
Where he appointed us to join him.—Ho!
[Calling off the stage.
Make to that point, my lads.
(To those near him.)
Here, for a little while, upon the turf
We'll snatch a hasty meal, and, so refresh'd,
Take to our boats again. Enter three other Fishermen, as from their boat, on the other side of the stage.

Well met, my friends! I'm glad you're here at last.
How was it that you took that distant track?

3d fish.
The current bore us wide of what we wist;
And, were it not your honour is impatient
Mainland to make, we had not come so soon.

De Grey.
What had detain'd you?

3d fish.
As near you rock we bore, that o'er the waves
Just shows its jetty point, and will, ere long,
Beneath the tide be hidd'n, we heard the sound
Of feeble lamentation.

De Grey.
A human voice?

3d fish.
I cannot think it was;
For on that rock, sea-girt, and at high tide
Sea-cover'd, human thing there cannot be;
Though, at the first, it sounded in our ears
Like a faint woman's voice.

De Grey.
Perceived ye aught?

3d fish.
Yes; something white that moved, and, as we think,
Some wounded bird that there hath dropp'd its wing,
And cannot make its way.

4th fish.
Perhaps some dog,
Whose master, at low water, there hath been,
And left him.

3d fish.
Something 'tis in woeful case,
Whate'er it be. Right fain I would have gone
To bear it off.

De Grey
(eagerly).
And wherefore didst thou not?
Return and save it. Be it what it may;
Something it is, lone and in jeopardy,
Which hath a feeling of its desperate state,
And therefore doth to woe-worn, fearful man,
A kindred nature bear.—Return, good friend:—
Quickly return and save it, ere the tide
Shall wash it from its hold. I to the coast
Will steer the while, and wait your coming there.

3d fish.
Right gladly, noble sir.

4th fish.
We'll gladly go:
For, by my faith! at night I had not slept
For thinking of that sound.

De Grey.
Heaven speed you then! whate'er ye bring to me
Of living kind, I will reward you for it.
Our different tracks we hold; nor longer here
Will I remain. Soon may we meet:
God speed you!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A fisherman's house on the mainland.
Enter John of Lorne and Sir Hubert de Grey.
Lorne.
Then wait thou for thy boat; I and my men
Will onward to the town, where, as I hope,
My trusty vassals and our steeds are station'd.
But lose not time.

De Grey.
Fear not; I'll follow quickly.

Lorne.
I must unto the castle of Argyll
Without delay proceed; therefore, whate'er
Of living kind, bird, beast, or creeping thing,
This boat of thine produces, bring it with thee;
And, were it eaglet fierce, or wolf, or fox,
On with us shall it travel, mounted bravely,
Our homeward cavalcade to grace. Farewell!

De Grey.
Farewell, my friend! I shall not long delay
Thy homeward journey.

Lorne
(calling off the stage).
But ho! good host and hostess! (To De Grey.)
Ere I go
I must take leave of honest Duncan here,
And of his rosy wife.—Ay, here they come. Enter the host and his wife.

(To host, &c.)
Farewell, my friends, and thanks be to you both!
Good cheer, and kindly given, of you we've had.
Thy hand, good host. May all the fish o' th' ocean
Come crowding to thy nets!—And healthy brats,
Fair dame, have thou! with such round rosy cheeks
As brats of thine befit: and, by your leave,
[Kissing her.
So be they kiss'd by all kind comers too!
Good luck betide you both!

Host.
And, sir, to you the same. Whoe'er you be,
A brave man art thou, that I will be sworn.

Wife.
Come you this way again, I hope, good sir,
You will not pass our door.

Lorne.
Fear not, good hostess;
It is a pleasant, sunny, open door,
And bids me enter of its own accord;
I cannot pass it by.—Good luck betide you!

[Exit, followed to the door by Sir Hubert.
Host.
I will be sworn it is some noble chieftain,
Though homely be his garb.

Wife.
Ay, so will I: the Lord of Lorne himself
Could not more courteous be.

Host.
Hush! hush! be quiet!
We live not now amongst the Campbells, wife.
Should some Maclean o'erhear thee—hush, I say.
[Eyeing De Grey, who returns from the door.
And this man, too; right noble is his mien;
He is no common rambler.
(To De Grey.)
By your leave,
If I may be so bold without offending,
Your speech, methinks, smacks of a southern race;
I guess at least of Lowland kin ye be.
But think no shame of this; we'll ne'ertheless
Regard thee: thieves and cowards be not all
Who from the Lowlands come.

Wife.
No; no, in sooth! I knew a Lowlander,
Some years gone by, who was as true and honest—
Ay, and I do believe well nigh as brave,
As though, with brogued feet, he never else
Had all his days than muir or mountain trodd'n.

De Grey.
Thanks for your gentle thoughts!—It has indeed
Been my misluck to draw my earliest breath
Where meadows flower, and corn fields wave i' th' sun.
But let us still be friends! Heaven gives us not
To choose our birth-place, else these wilds, no doubt,
Would be more thickly peopled.

Host.
Ay, true it is, indeed.

Wife.
And hard it were
To quarrel with him too for his misfortune.

[Noise heard without.
De Grey.
Ha! 'tis my boat return'd.

Enter 1st Fisherman.
1st fish.
Ay, here we are.

De Grey.
And aught saved from the rock?

1st fish.
Yes, by my faith! but neither bird nor beast.
Look there, my master.

[Pointing to the door.
Enter Helen, extremely exhausted, and almost senseless, wrapped closely up in one of their plaids, and supported by the other two Fishermen.
De Grey.
A woman! Heaven in mercy! was it then
A human creature there exposed to perish?

1st fish.
(opening the plaid to show her face).
Ay, look; and such a creature!

De Grey
(starting back).
Helen of Argyll!
O God! was this the feeble wailing voice?
[Clasping his arms about her knees, as she stands almost senseless, supported by the fishermen, and bursting into tears.
Could heart of man so leave thee? thou, of all
That lovely is, most lovely.—Woe is me!
Some aid, I pray you.
[To host and his wife.
Bear her softly in,
And wrap warm garments round her. Breathes she freely?
Her eyes half open are, but life, alas!
Is almost spent, and holds within her breast
A weak uncertain seat.
[Helen moves her hand.
She moves her hand:—
She knows my voice.—O heaven, in mercy save her!
Bear her more gently, pray you:—Softly, softly!
How weak and spent she is!

1st fish.
No marvel she is weak: we reach'd her not
Until the swelling waters laved her girdle.
And then to see her—

De Grey.
Cease, I pray thee, friend,
And tell me not—

2d fish.
Nay, faith, he tells you true:
She stood above the water, with stretched arms
Clung to the dripping rock, like the white pinions—

De Grey.
Peace, peace, I say! thy words are agony:—
Give to my mind no image of the thing!

[Exeunt, bearing Helen into an inner part of the house.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A small Gothic hall, or ante-room, in Argyll's castle, a door at the bottom of the stage, leading to the apartment of the earl, before which is discovered the piper pacing backwards and forwards, playing on his bagpipe.
Enter Dugald.
Dugald.
Now, pray thee, piper, cease! That stunning din
Might do good service by the ears to set
Two angry clans; but for a morning's rouse,
Here at an old man's door, it does, good sooth,
Exceed all reasonable use. The Earl
Has pass'd a sleepless night: I pray thee now
Give o'er, and spare thy pains.

Piper.
And spare my pains, sayst thou? I'll do mine office,
As long as breath within my body is.

Dug.
Then mercy on us all! if wind thou meanst,
There is within that sturdy trunk of thine,
Old as it is, a still exhaustless store.
A Lapland witch's bag could scarcely match it.
Thou couldst, I doubt not, belly out the sails
Of a three-masted vessel with thy mouth:
But be thy mercy equal to thy might!
I pray thee now give o'er: in faith the earl
Has pass'd a sleepless night.

Piper.
Thinkst thou I am a Lowland, day-hired minstrel,
To play or stop at bidding? Is Argyll
The lord and chieftain of our ancient clan,
More certainly, than I to him, as such,
The high hereditary piper am?
A sleepless night, forsooth! He's slept full oft
On the hard heath, with fifty harness'd steeds
Champing their fodder round him;—soundly too.
I'll do mine office, loon, chafe as thou wilt.

[Continuing to pace up and down, and play as before.
Dugald.
Nay, thou the chafer art, red-crested cock!
The Lord of Lorne has spoilt thee with indulging
Thy wilful humours. Cease thy cursed din!
See; here the earl himself comes forth to chide thee.

[Exit.
Enter Argyll, attended, from the chamber.
Arg.
Good morrow, piper! thou hast roused me bravely:
A younger man might gird his tartans on
With lightsome heart to martial sounds like these,
But I am old.

Piper.
O no, my noble chieftain!
It is not age subdues you.

Arg.
No; what else?

Piper.
Alack! the flower and blossom of your house
The wind hath blown away to other towers.
When she was here, and gladsome faces brighten'd
With looking on her, and around your board
Sweet lays were sung, and gallants in the hall
Footed it trimly to our varied measures,
There might, indeed, be found beneath your roof
Those who might reckon years fourscore and odds,
But of old folks, I warrant, ne'er a soul.
No; we were all young then.

Arg.
(sighing deeply).
'Tis true, indeed,
It was even as thou sayst. Our earthly joys
Fly like the blossoms scatter'd by the wind.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
Please you, my lord,
Some score of vassals in the hall attend
To bid good morrow to you, and the hour
Wears late: the chamberlain hath bid me say
He will dismiss them, if it please your honour.

Arg.
Nay, many a mile have some of them, I know,
With suit or purpose lurking in their minds,
Ridd'n o'er rough paths to see me; disappointed
Shall none of them return. I'm better now.
I have been rather weary than unwell.
Say, I will see them presently.

[Exit servant.
Re-enter Dugald in haste.
(To Dugald.)
Thou comest with a busy face: what tidings?
Dugald.
The Lord of Lorne's arrived, an' please your honour:
Sir Hubert too, and all their jolly train;
And with them have they brought a lady, closely
In hood and mantle muffled: ne'er a glimpse
May of her face be seen.

Arg.
A lady, sayst thou?

Dugald.
Yes; closely muffled up.

Arg.
(pacing up and down, somewhat disturbed).
I like not this.—It cannot surely be—
[Stopping short, and looking hard at Dugald.
Whence comes he?

Dugald.
He a-hunting went, I know,
To Cromack's ancient laird, whose youthful dame
So famed for beauty is; but whence he comes,
I cannot tell, my lord.

Arg.
(pacing up and down, as he speaks to himself in broken sentences, very much disturbed).
To Cromack's ancient laird!—If that indeed—
Beshrew me, if it be!—I'd rather lose
Half of my lands, than son of mine such wrong,
Such shameful wrong, should do. This sword I've drawn
Like robbery to revenge, ne'er to abet it:
And shall I now with hoary locks—No, no!—
My noble Lorne! he cannot be so base.

Enter Lorne, going up to Argyll with agitation.
Arg.
(eyeing him suspiciously).
Well, John, how is it? Welcome art thou home,}
If thou returnst, as well I would believe,
Deserving of a welcome.

Lorne.
Doubts my lord
That I am so return'd?
[Aside to Argyll, endeavouring to draw him apart from his attendants.
Your ear, my father.
Let these withdraw: I have a thing to tell you.

Arg.
(looking still more suspiciously upon Lorne, from seeing the eagerness and agitation with which he speaks, and turning from him indignantly).
No, by this honest blade! if wrong thou'st done,
Thou hast no shelter here. In open day,
Before th' assembled vassals shalt thou tell it;
And he whom thou hast injured be redress'd,
While I have power to bid my Campbells fight
I' the fair and honour'd cause.

Lorne.
I pray, my lord—
Will you vouchsafe to hear me?

Arg.
Thoughtless boy!
How far unlike the noble Lorne I thought thee!—
Proud as I am, far rather would I see thee
Join'd to the daughter of my meanest vassal,
Than see thy manly, noble worth engaged
In such foul raid as this.

Lorne.
Nay, nay! be pacified!
I'd rather take, in faith, the tawny hand
Of homeliest maid, that doth, o' holidays,
Her sun-burnt locks with worsted ribbon bind,
Fairly and freely won, than brightest dame
That e'er in stately bower or regal hall
In graceful beauty shone, gain'd by such wrong—
By such base treachery as you have glanced at.
These are plain words: then treat me like a man,
Who hath been wont the manly truth to speak.

Arg.
Ha! now thy countenance and tone again
Are John of Lorne's. That look, and whispering voice,
So strange appear'd, in truth I liked it not.
Give me thy hand.—Where is the stranger dame?
If she in trouble be—

Lorne
(aside).
Make these withdraw,
And I will lead her hither.

[Exit, while the earl waves his hand, and Dugald and attendants, &c. go out: presently re-enter Lorne, leading in Helen, covered closely up in a mantle.
Lorne.
This is the dame, who, houseless and deserted,
Seeks shelter here, nor fears to be rejected.

Helen
(sinking down, and clasping Argyll 's knees).
My father!

Arg.
That voice!—O God!—unveil—unveil, for mercy!
[Tearing off the mantle that conceals her.
My child! my Helen!
[Clasping her to his heart, and holding her there for some time, unable to speak.
My child! my dearest child!—my soul! my pride!
Deserted!—houseless!—com'st thou to me thus?
Here is thy house—thy home: this aged bosom
Thy shelter is, which thou shalt quit no more.
My child! my child!
[Embracing her again; Helen and he weeping upon one another's necks.
Houseless! deserted—'neath the cope of heaven
Breathes there a wretch who could desert thee?—Speak,
If he hath so abused his precious trust,
If he—it makes me tear these hoary locks
To think what I have done!—Oh thoughtless father!
Thoughtless and selfish too!

[Tearing his hair, beating his forehead with all the violent gestures of rage and grief.
Helen.
Oh, oh! forbear! It was not you, my father;
I gave myself away: I did it willingly:
We acted both for good; and now your love
Repays me richly—stands to me instead
Of many blessings.—Noble Lorne, besides—
O, he hath been to me so kind—so tender!
[Taking her brother's hand, and pressing it to her breast; then joining her father's to it, and pressing them both ardently to her lips.
Say not I am deserted: heaven hath chid me—
Hath chid me sorely: but hath bless'd me too,—
O, dearly bless'd me!

Arg.
Hath chid thee sorely!—how I burn to hear it!
What hast thou suffer'd?

Lorne.
We will not tell thee now. Go to thy chamber,
And be awhile composed. We have, my father,
A tale to tell that will demand of thee
Recruited strength to hear.—We'll follow thee.

[Exeunt; Lorne supporting his father and Helen into the chamber.

SCENE II.

The garden of the castle.
Enter Argyll, Lorne, and Sir Hubert de Grey, speaking as they enter.
Lorne.
A month!—A week or two!—No, not an hour
Would I suspend our vengeance. Such atrocity
Makes e'en the little term between our summons,
And the dark crowding round our martial pipes
Of plumed bonnets nodding to the wind,
Most tedious seem; yea, makes the impatient foot
To smite the very earth beneath its tread,
For being fix'd and inert.

Arg.
Be less impatient, John: thou canst not doubt
A father's keen resentment of such wrong:
But let us still be wise; this short delay
Will make revenge the surer; to its aim
A just direction give.

De Grey.
The earl is right:
We shall but work in the dark, impatient Lorne,
If we too soon begin.

Arg.
How far Maclean
Hath to this horrible attempt consented,
Or privy been, we may be certified,
By waiting silently to learn the tale
That he will tell us of his lady's loss,
When he shall send to give us notice of it,
As doubtless soon he will.

De Grey.
If he, beset and threaten'd, to those fiends,
Unknowing of their purpose, hath unwillingly
Committed her, he will himself, belike,
If pride prevent him not, your aid solicit
To set him free from his disgraceful thraldom.

Lorne.
And if he should, shrunk be this sinew'd arm,
If it unsheath a weapon in his cause!
Let ev'ry ragged stripling on his lands
In wanton mock'ry mouth him with contempt;
Benlora head his vassals; and Lochtarish—
That serpent, full of ev'ry devilish wile,
His prison-keeper and his master be!

De Grey.
Ay; and the keeper also of his son,
The infant heir.

Lorne
(starting).
I did not think of this.

Arg.
Then let thy headstrong fury pause upon it.
Thanks to Sir Hubert's prudence! thou as yet
Before thy followers hast restrained been;
And who this lady is, whom to the castle,
Like a mysterious stranger, ye have brought,
From them remains conceal'd.—My brave De Grey!
This thy considerate foresight, join'd to all
Thy other service in this woeful matter,
Hath made us much thy debtor.

De Grey.
I have indeed, my lord, consider'd only
What I believed would Helen's wishes be,
Ere she herself could utter them; if this
Hath proved equivalent to wiser foresight,
Let it direct us still; let Helen's wishes
Your measures guide.

Arg.
Ah, brave De Grey! would they had ever done so!
I had not now—
[Taking Sir Hubert's hand with emotion.
Forgive me, noble youth!
Alas, alas! the father's tenderness
Before the chieftain's policy gave way,
And all this wreck hath been.

Lorne.
'Tis even so.
That cursed peace; that coward's shadeless face
Of smiles and promises, to all things yielding
With weak, unmanly pliancy, so gain'd you—
Even you, the wise Argyll!—it made me mad!
Who hath no point that he maintains against you,
No firmness hath to hold him of your side:
Who cannot sturdily against me stand,
And say, “Encroach no farther,” friend of mine
Shall never be.

De Grey.
Nay, Lorne, forbear!—forbear!
Thine own impetuous wilfulness did make
The other's pliant mind more specious seem;
And thou thyself didst to that luckless union,
Although unwittingly, assistance lend.
Make now amends for it, and curb thy spirit,
While that the Earl with calmer judgment waits
His time for action.

Lorne.
Beshrew me, but thy counsel strangely smacks
Of cautious timid age! In faith, De Grey,
But that I know thy noble nature well,
I could believe thee—

Arg.
Peace, unruly spirit!
Bold as thou art, methinks, with locks like these,
Thy father still may say to thee, “Be silent!”

Lorne
(checking himself, and bowing very low to Argyll).
And be obey'd devoutly.—O forgive me!
Those locks are to your brows a kingly fillet
Of strong authority, to which my heart
No rebel is, though rude may be my words.
[Taking Sir Hubert 's hand with an assured countenance.
I ask not thee, De Grey, to pardon me.
Resistance here with gentleness is join'd:
Therefore I've loved thee, and have laid upon thee
The hand of sure possession! claiming still
A friend's endurance of my froward temper,
Which, froward as it is, from thee hath borne
What never human being but thyself
Had dared to goad it with.

De Grey.
It is indeed
Thy well-earn'd right thou askest, noble Lorne,
And it is yielded to thee cheerfully.

Arg.
My aged limbs are tired with pacing here;
Some one approaches: within that grove
We'll find a shady seat, and there conclude
This well-debated point.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A court within the castle, surrounded with buildings.
Enter Dugald and a Vassal, two servants at the same time crossing the stage, with covered dishes in their hands.
Vas.
I'll wait until the Earl shall be at leisure;
My business presses not. Where do they carry
Those cover'd meats? Have ye within the castle
Some noble prisoner?

Dugald.
Would so it were! but these are days of peace.
They bear them to the stranger dame's apartment,
Whom they have told thee of. There, at her door,
An ancient faithful handmaid of the house,
Whate'er they bring receives; for none beside
Of all the household is admitted.

Vas.
Now, by my fay! my purse and dirk I'd give
To know who this may be.—Some chieftain's lady
Whom John of Lorne—

Dugald.
Nay, there, I must believe,
Thou guessest erringly.—I grant, indeed,
He doffs his bonnet to each tacks-man's wife,
And is with every coif amongst them all,
Both young and old, in such high favour held,
Nor maiden, wife, nor beldame of the clan
But to the Earl doth her petition bring
Through intercession of the Lord of Lorne;
But never yet did husband, sire, or brother,
Of wrong from him complain.

Vas.
I know it well.

Dugald.
But be she who she may,
This stranger here; I doubt not, friend, ere long,
We shall have bickering for her in the field
With some fierce foe or other.

Vas.
So I trust:
And by my honest faith! this peace of ours
Right long and tiresome is—I thought, ere now,
Some of our restless neighbours would have trespass'd
And inroads made: but no; Argyll and Lorne
Have grown a terror to them: all is quiet;
And we ourselves must the aggressors be,
Or still this dull and slothful life endure,
Which makes our men of three-score years and ten
To fret and murmur.

Enter Rosa, with a servant conducting her.
Serv.
(to Dugald).
A lady here, would see my Lord of Lorne.

Dugald.
Yes, still to him they come.
[Looking at Rosa.
Ha! see I rightly?
Rosa from Mull?

Rosa.
Yes, Dugald; here thou seest
A woeful bearer of unwelcome tidings.

Dugald.
What, hath thy lady sent thee?

Rosa.
Alas, alas! I have no lady now.

Dugald.
Ha! is she dead? not many days ago
She was alive and well.—Hast thou so soon
The castle quitted—left thy lady's corse?

Rosa.
Thinkst thou I would have left her?—On the night
When, as they say, she died, I from the castle
By force was ta'en, and to mainland convey'd;
Where in confinement I remain'd, till chance
Gave me the means of breaking from my prison;
And hither am I come, in woeful plight,
The dismal tale to tell.

Dugald.
A tale, indeed,
Most dismal, strange, and sudden.

Rosa.
How she died
God knows; but much I fear foul play she had.
Where is the Lord of Lorne? for first to him
I wish to speak.

Dugald.
Come, I will lead thee to him.—Had foul play!

Vassal.
Fell fiends they are could shed her blood! If this
Indeed hath been, 'twill make good cause, I wot;
The warlike pipe will sound our summons soon.

[Exeunt Dugald and Rosa, &c., as Argyll and Sir Hubert enter by the opposite side.
Arg.
And wilt thou leave us then, my noble friend?
May we not still for some few days retain thee?

De Grey.
Where'er I go, I carry in my heart
A warm remembrance of the friendly home
That still within these hospitable walls
I've found; but longer urge me not to stay.
In Helen's presence now, constrain'd and strange,
With painful caution, chasing from my lips
The ready thought, half-quiver'd into utterance,
For cold corrected words, expressive only
Of culprit consciousness,—I sit; nor e'en
May look upon her face but as a thing
On which I may not look; so painful now
The mingled feeling is, since dark despair
With one faint ray of hope hath temper'd been.
I can no more endure it. She herself
Perceives it, and it pains her.—Let me then
Bid you farewell, my lord. When evening comes,
I'll, under favour of the rising moon,
Set forth.

Arg.
Indeed! so soon? and must it be?

De Grey.
Yes; to Northumberland without delay
I fain would take my road. My aged father
Looks now impatiently for my return.

Arg.
Then I'll no longer urge thee. To thy father,
The noble baron, once, in better days,
My camp-mate and my friend, I must resign thee.
Bear to him every kind and cordial wish
An ancient friend can send, and—
[A horn heard without.
Hark! that horn!
Some messenger of moment is arrived.—
We'll speak of this again.—The moon to-night
Is near the full, and at an early hour—
Enter a Messenger, bearing a letter.
Whose messenger art thou, who in thy hand
That letter bearst with broad and sable seal,
Which seems to bring to me some dismal tidings?

Mess.
From Mull, my lord, I come; and the Maclean,
Our chief, commission'd me to give you this,
Which is indeed with dismal tidings fraught.

[Argyll opens the letter, and reads it with affected surprise and sorrow.
Arg.
Heavy, indeed, and sudden is the loss—
The sad calamity that hath befallen.
The will of heaven be done!
[Putting a handkerchief to his eyes, and leaning, as if for support, upon Sir Hubert; then, after a pause, turning to the messenger.
How didst thou leave the chieftain? He, I hope,
Permits not too much sorrow to o'er come
His manhood. Doth he bear his grief composedly?

Mess.
O no, it is most violent! At the funeral,
Had not the good Lochtarish, by his side,
Supported him, he had with very grief
Sunk to the earth.—And good Lochtarish too
Was in right great affliction.

Arg.
Ay, good man;
I doubt it not.—Ye've had a splendid funeral?

Mess.
O yes, my lord! that have we had. Good truth!
A grand and stately burial has it been.
Three busy days and nights through all the isle
Have bagpipes play'd, and sparkling beakers flow'd;
And never corse, I trow, i' th' earth was laid
With louder lamentations.

Arg.
Ay, I doubt not,
Their grief was loud enough.—Pray pass ye in.
(To attendants at a distance.)
Conduct him there; and see that he be treated,
After his tedious journey, as befits
A way-tired stranger.
[Exeunt all but Argyll and Sir Hubert.
This doth all hope and all belief exceed.
Maclean will shortly follow this his notice,
[Giving Sir Hubert the letter.
To make me here a visit of condolence;
And thus within our power they put themselves
With most assured blindness.

De Grey
(after reading it).
'Tis Lochtarish,
In all the arts of dark hypocrisy
So deeply skill'd, who doth o'ershoot his mark,
As such full often do.

Arg.
And let him come!
At his own arts we trust to match him well.—
Their force, I guess, is not in readiness;
Therefore, meantime, to stifle all suspicion,
This specious mummery he hath devised;
And his most wretched chief, led by his will,
Most wretchedly submits.—Well, let us go
And tell to Lorne the news, lest too unguardedly
He should receive it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Sir Hubert de Grey, beckoning to Ross, who appears on the opposite side.
De Grey.
Rosa; I pray thee, spare me of thy leisure
Some precious moments: something would I say:
Wilt thou now favour me?

Rosa.
Most willingly.

De Grey.
As yet thy mistress knows not of the letter
Sent by Maclean, announcing his design
Of paying to the earl this sudden visit—
This mockery of condolence?

Rosa.
No; the earl
Forbade me to inform her.

De Grey.
This is well;
Her mind must be prepared. Meantime I go,
And thou art here to comfort and attend her:
O do it gently, Rosa! do it wisely!

Rosa.
You need not doubt my will.—Go ye so soon;
And to Northumberland?

De Grey.
So I intended.
And so Argyll and John of Lorne believe:
But since this messenger from Mull arrived,
Another thought has struck me.—Saidst thou not
The child—thy lady's child, ta'en from the castle,
Is to the keeping of Lochtarish' mother
Committed, whose lone house is on the shore?

Rosa.
Yes, whilst in prison pent, so did I hear
My keeper say, and much it troubled me.

De Grey.
Canst thou to some good islander commend me,
Within whose house I might upon the watch
Conceal'd remain?—It is to Mull I go,
And not to England. While Maclean is here,
Attended by his vassals, the occasion
I'll seize to save the infant.

Rosa.
Bless thee for it!
Heaven bless thee for the thought!—I know a man—
An aged fisherman, who will receive you;
Uncle to Morton: and if he himself
Still in the island be, there will you find him,
Most willing to assist you.

De Grey.
Hush, I pray
I hear thy lady's steps.

Rosa.
Near to the castle gate, ere you depart,
I'll be in waiting to inform you farther
Of what may aid your purpose.

De Grey.
Do, good Rosa,
And make me much thy debtor. But be secret.

Rosa.
You need not doubt me.

Enter Helen, and De Grey goes up to her as if he would speak, but the words falter on his lips, and he is silent.
Helen.
Alas! I see it is thy parting visit;
Thou com'st to say “farewell!”

De Grey.
Yes, Helen: I am come to leave with thee
A friend's dear benison—a parting wish—
A last—rest ev'ry blessing on thy head!
Be this permitted to me:
[Kissing her hand with profound respect.
Fare thee well!
Heaven aid and comfort thee! Farewell! farewell!

[Is about to retire hastily, whilst Helen follows to prevent him.
Helen.
O go not from me with that mournful look!
Alas! thy gen'rous heart, depress'd and sunk,
Looks on my state too sadly.—
I am not, as thou thinkst, a thing so lost
In woe and wretchedness.—Believe not so!
All whom misfortune with her rudest blasts
Hath buffeted, to gloomy wretchedness
Are not therefore abandon'd. Many souls
From cloister'd cells, from hermits' caves, from holds
Of lonely banishment, and from the dark
And dreary prison-house, do raise their thoughts
With humble cheerfulness to heaven, and feel
A hallow'd quiet, almost akin to joy;
And may not I, by heaven's kind mercy aided,
Weak as I am, with some good courage bear
What is appointed for me?—O be cheer'd!
And let not sad and mournful thoughts of me
Depress thee thus.—When thou art far away,
Thou'lt hear, the while, that in my father's house
I spend my peaceful days, and let it cheer thee.
I too shall ev'ry southern stranger question,
Whom chance may to these regions bring, and learn
Thy fame and prosperous state.

De Grey.
My fame and prosperous state, while thou art thus!
If thou in calm retirement liv'st contented,
Lifting thy soul to heaven, what lack I more?
My sword and spear, changed to a pilgrim's staff,
Will be a prosperous state; and for my fame,—
A feeble sound that after death remains,
The echo of an unrepeated stroke
That fades away to silence,—surely this
Thou dost not covet for me.

Helen.
Ah, I do!
Yet, granting here I err, didst thou not promise
To seek in wedded love and active duties
Thy share of cheerful weal?—and dost thou now
Shrink from thy gen'rous promise?—No, thou shalt not.
I hold thee bound—I claim it of thee boldly.
It is my right. If thou, in sad seclusion,
A lonely wanderer art, thou dost extinguish
The ray that should have cheer'd my gloom: thou makest
What else had been a calm and temper'd sorrow,
A state of wretchedness.—O no! thou wilt not!
Take to thy gen'rous heart some virtuous maid,
And doubt not thou a kindred heart wilt find.
The cheerful tenderness of woman's nature
To thine is suited, and when join'd to thee,
Will grow in virtue:—Take thou then this ring,
If thou wilt honour so my humble gift,
And put it on her hand; and be assured
She who shall wear it,—she whose happy fate
Is link'd with thine, will prove a noble mate.

De Grey.
O there I am assured! she whose fate
Is link'd with mine, if fix'd be such decree,
Most rich in every soft and noble trait
Of female virtue is: in this full well
Assured I am.—I would—I thought—forgive—
I speak but raving words:—a hasty spark,
Blown and extinguish'd, makes me waver thus.
Permit me then again.
[Kissing her hand.
High heaven protect thee!
Farewell!

Helen.
Farewell! and heaven's good charge be thou!

[They part, and both turn away to opposite sides of the stage, when Sir Hubert, looking round just as he is about to go off, and seeing Helen also looking after him sorrowfully, eagerly returns.
De Grey.
Ah! are those looks—
[Going to kneel at her feet, but immediately checking himself with much embarrassment.
Alas! why come I back?
Something there was—thou gavest me a ring;
I have not dropp'd it?

Rosa
(coming forward).
No, 'tis on your finger.

De Grey.
Ay, true, good Rosa; but my wits are wilder'd;
I knew not what I sought.—
Farewell! farewell!

[Exit De Grey hastily, while Helen and Rosa go off by the opposite side.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Argyll 's castle, the vestibule, or grand entrance; a noise of bustle and voices heard without, and servants seen crossing the stage, as the scene opens.
Enter Dugald, meeting 1st servant.
Dugald.
They are arrived, Maclean and all his train;
Run quickly, man, and give our chieftains notice.

1st serv.
They know already: from the tower we spied
The mournful cavalcade: the Earl and Lorne
Are down the staircase hasting to receive them.

Dugald.
I've seen them light, a sooty-coated train,
With lank and woeful faces, and their eyes
Bent to the ground, as though our castle gate
Had been the scutcheon'd portal of a tomb,
Set open to receive them.

2d serv.
Ay, on the pavement fall their heavy steps
Measured and slow, as if her palled coffin
They follow'd still.

Dugald.
Hush, man! Here comes the Earl,
With face composed and stern; but look behind him
How John of Lorne doth gnaw his nether lip,
And beat his clenched hand against his thigh,
Like one who tampers with half-bridled ire!

2d serv.
Has any one offended him?

Dugald.
Be silent,
For they will overhear thee.—Yonder too
[Pointing to the opposite side of the stage.
Come the Macleans: let us our stations keep,
And see them meet.

[Retiring with the other to the bottom of the stage.
Enter Argyll and Lorne, attended, and in deep mourning; while, at the same time, by the opposite side of the stage, enter Maclean, Benlora, Lochtarish, and Glenfadden, with attendants, also in deep mourning: Argyll and Maclean go up to one another, and formally embrace.
Arg.
Welcome! if such a cheerful word as this
May with our deep affliction suited be.
Lochtarish too, and brave Benlora, ay,
And good Glenfadden also,—be ye all
With due respect received, as claims your worth.

[Taking them severally by the hand as he names them. Maclean then advances to embrace Lorne, who shrinks back from him, but immediately correcting himself, bends his body another way, as if suddenly seized with some violent pain.
Arg.
(to Maclean).
Regard him not: he hath imprudently
A recent wound exposed to chiling air,
And oft the pain with sudden pang attacks him.

Loch.
Ay, what is shrewder? we have felt the like,
And know it well, my lord.

Arg.
(bowing to Lochtarish, but continuing to speak to Maclean).
Yet, ne'ertheless, good son-in-law and chieftain,
Believe thou well that with a brother's feelings,
Proportion'd to the dire and dismal case
That hath befallen, he now receives you; also
Receiving these your friends with equal favour.
This is indeed to us a woeful meeting,
Chieftain of Mull.
[Looking keenly in his face, while the other shuns his eye.
I see full well the change
Which violent grief upon that harrow'd visage
So deeply hath impress'd.

Mac.
(still embarrassed, and shrinking from Argyll 's observation).
Ah! ah! the woeful day!—I cannot speak.
Alas, alas!

Arg.
Alas, in truth,
Too much the woeful widower's alter'd looks,
Upon thy face I see.

Loch.
(to Argyll).
You see, my lord, his eyes with too much weeping
Are weak, and shun the light. Nor should we marvel:
What must to him the sudden loss have been,
When even to us, who were more distantly
Connected with her rare and matchless virtue,
It brought such keen affliction?

Arg.
Yes, good Lochtarish, I did give her to you—
To your right worthy chief, a noble creature,
With every kindly virtue—every grace
That might become a noble chieftain's wife:
And that ye have so well esteem'd—so well
Regarded, cherish'd, and respected her,
As your excessive sorrow now declares,
Receive from me a grateful father's thanks.
Lochtarish, most of all to thy good love
I am beholden.

Loch.
Ah! small was the merit
Such goodness to respect.

Arg.
And thou, Benlora;
A woman, and a stranger, on the brave
Still potent claims maintain; and little doubt I
They were by thee regarded.
[Benlora steps back, frowning sternly, and remains silent.
And, Glenfadden,
Be not thy merits overlook'd.

Glen.
Alas!
You overrate, my lord, such slender service.

Arg.
Wrong not, I pray, thy modest worth.—But here,
[Turning again to Maclean.
Here most of all, from whom her gentle virtues,
(And so indeed it right and fitting was,)
Their best and dearest recompense received,
To thee, most generous chieftain, let me pay
The thanks that are thy due.

Mac.
Oh, oh! alas!

Arg.
Ay, in good sooth! I see thy grief-worn eyes
Do shun the light.
But grief is ever sparing of its words.
In brief, I thank you all: and for the love
Ye have so dearly shown to me and mine,
I trust, before we part, to recompense you
As suits your merit and my gratitude.

Lorne
(aside to Argyll).
Ay, father; now ye speak to them shrewd words;
And now I'm in the mood to back you well.

Arg.
(aside to Lorne).
'Tis well thou art; but check those eager looks;
Lochtarish eyes thee keenly.

[Directing a hasty glance to Lochtarish, who is whispering to Glenfadden, and looking suspiciously at Lorne.
Lorne
(stepping forward to Maclean, &c.).
Chieftain, and honour'd gentlemen, I pray
The sullen, stern necessity excuse
Which pain imposed upon me, and receive,
Join'd with my noble father's, such poor thanks
As I may offer to your loving worth.

Arg.
Pass on, I pray you; till the feast be ready,
Rest ye above, where all things are prepared
For your refreshment.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A narrow arched room or closet, adjoining to a gallery.
Enter Lochtarish and Glenfadden.
Loch.
How likest thou this, Glenfadden? Doth the face
Argyll assumes, of studied courtesy,
Raise no suspicion?

Glen.
Faith, I know not well!—
The speech, indeed, with which he welcomed us,
Too wordy, and too artificial seem'd
To be the native growth of what he felt.

Loch.
It so to me appear'd: and John of Lorne,
First shrinking from Maclean, with sudden pain,
As he pretended, struck; then stern and silent;
Till presently assuming, like his father,
A courtesy minute and over-studied,
He glozed us with his thanks:—
Didst thou not mark his keenly flashing eye,
When spoke Argyll of recompensing us
Before we part?

Glen.
I did indeed observe it.

Loch.
This hath a meaning.

Glen.
Faith, I do suspect
Some rumour must have reach'd their ear; and yet
Our agents faithful are; it cannot be.

Loch.
Or can, or can it not, beneath this roof
A night I will not sleep. When evening comes
Meet we again. If at this banquet, aught
Shall happen to confirm our fears, forthwith
Let us our safety seek in speedy flight.

Glen.
And leave Maclean behind us?

Loch.
Ay, and Benlora too. Affairs the better
At Mull will thrive, when we have rid our hands
Of both these hind'rances, who in our way
Much longer may not be.
[Listening.
We're interrupted.
Let us into the gallery return,
And join the company with careless face,
Like those who have from curiosity
But stepp'd aside to view the house.—Make haste!
It is Argyll and Lorne.

[Exeunt, looking at the opposite side, alarmed, at which enter Argyll and Lorne.
Lorne.
Are you not now convinced? his conscious guilt
Is in his downcast and embarrass'd looks,
And careful shunning of all private converse
Whene'er aside you've drawn him from his train,
Too plainly seen: you cannot now, my lord,
Doubt of his share in this atrocious deed.

Arg.
Yet, Lorne, I would, ere further we proceed,
Prove it more fully still. The dinner hour
Is now at hand.
[Listening.
What steps are those,
That in the gallery, close to this door,
Like some lone straggler from the company
Withdrawn, sound quickly pacing to and fro?
Look out and see.

Lorne
(going to the door, and calling back to Argyll in a low voice).
It is Maclean himself.

Arg.
Beckon him hither then.—Thank heaven for this!
Now opportunity is fairly given,
If that constrainedly he cloaks their guilt,
To free him from their toils.

Enter Maclean, conducted by Lorne.
Arg.
(to Maclean).
My son, still in restraint before our vassals
Have we conversed; but now in privacy—
Start not, I pray thee:—sit thee down, Maclean:
I would have close and private words of thee:
Sit down, I pray; my aged limbs are tired.
[Argyll and Maclean sit down, whilst Lorne stands behind them, with his ear bent eagerly to listen, and his eyes fixed with a side-glance on Maclean.
Chieftain, I need not say to thee, who deeply
Lament'st with us our sad untimely loss,
How keenly I have felt it.—
And now indulge a father in his sorrow,
And say how died my child.—Was her disease
Painful as it was sudden?

Mac.
It was—alas! I know not how it was.
A fell disease!—Her end was so appointed.

Lorne
(behind).
Ay, that I doubt not.

Mac.
A fearful malady! though it received
All good assistance.

Lorne
(behind).
That I doubt not either.

Mac.
A cruel ill!—but how it dealt with her,
My grief o'erwhelm'd me so, I could not tell.

Arg.
Say—wast thou present? didst thou see her die?

Mac.
Oh, oh! the woeful sight, that I should see it!

Arg.
Thou didst not see it then?

Mac.
Alack! alack!
O would that I had seen—O woe is me!
Her pain—her agony was short to mine!

Lorne
(behind, impatiently).
Is this an answer, chieftain, to the question
Argyll hath plainly ask'd thee—wast thou present
When Helen died? didst thou behold her death?

Mac.
O yes; indeed I caught your meaning lamely;
I meant—I thought—I know not certainly
The very time and moment of her death,
Although within my arms she breathed her last.

Lorne
(rushing forward eagerly).
Now are we answered.

[Argyll, covering his face with his hands, throws himself back in his chair for some time without speaking.
Mac.
(to Argyll).
I fear, my lord, too much I have distress'd you.

Arg.
Somewhat you have indeed.—And further now
I will not press your keen and recent sorrow
With questions that so much renew its anguish.

Mac.
You did, belike, doubt of my tenderness.

Arg.
O no! I have no doubts. Within your arms
She breathed her last?

Mac.
Within my arms she died.

Arg.
(looking hard at Maclean, and then turning away).
His father was a brave and honest chief!

Mac.
What says my lord?

Arg.
A foolish exclamation,
Of no determined meaning.
[Bell sounds without.
Dry our tears:
The hall-bell warns us to the ready feast;
And through the gallery I hear the sound
Of many footsteps hastening to the call.
Chieftain, I follow thee.

[Exeunt Argyll and Maclean.
Lorne
(alone, stopping to listen).
The castle, throng'd throughout with moving life,
From every winding stair, and arched aisle,
A mingled echo sends.
Ay; light of foot, I hear their sounding steps
A-trooping to the feast, who never more
At feast shall sit, or social meal partake.
O wretch! O fiend of vile hypocrisy!
How fiercely burns my blood within my veins
Till I am match'd with thee!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The great hall of the castle, with a feast set out, and the company already placed at table, with servants and attendants in waiting, who fill the stage in every part: Argyll is seated at the head of the table, with Maclean on his left hand, and a chair left empty on his right.
Arg.
(to Maclean, &c.)
Most worthy chief, and honour'd guests and kinsmen,
I crave your pardon for this short delay:
One of our company is wanting still,
For whom we have reserved this empty place;
Nor will the chief of Mull unkindly take it,
That on our better hand this chair of honour
Is for a lady kept.

Omnes.
A lady!

[A general murmur of surprise is heard through the hall.
Arg.
Yes;
Who henceforth of this house the mistress is;
And were it palace of our Scottish king,
Would so deserve to be.

Omnes.
We give you joy, my lord.

[A confused murmur heard again.
Mac.
We give you joy, my lord: your age is bless'd.
We little thought, in these our funeral weeds,
A bridal feast to darken.

Lorne.
No, belike.
Many who don their coat at break of day,
Know not what shall befal them, therein girt,
Ere evening close.
[Assuming a gay tone.
The Earl hath set a step-dame o'er my head
To cow my pride—What think you, brave Maclean?
This world so fleeting is and full of change,
Some lose their wives, I trow, and others find them.
Bridegrooms and widowers do, side by side,
Their beakers quaff; and which of them at heart
Most glad or sorry is, the subtle fiend,
Who in men's hollow hearts his council holds,
He wotteth best, though each good man will swear,
His, lost or found, all other dames excell'd.

Arg.
Curb, Lorne, thy saucy tongue: Maclean himself
Shall judge if she—the lady I have found,
Equal in beauty her whom he hath lost.
In worth I'm sure she does. But hush! she comes.

[A great commotion through the hall amongst the attendants, &c.
Omnes.
It is the lady.

Arg.
(rising from his seat, and making signs to the attendants nearest the door).
Ho there! make room, and let the lady pass.

[The servants, &c. stand apart, ranging themselves on every side to let the lady pass; and enter Helen, magnificently dressed, with a deep white veil over her face; while Lorne, going forward to meet her, conducts her to her chair on Argyll 's right hand.
Arg.
(to the Campbells).
Now, fill a cup of welcome to our friends!

Loch.
(to Maclean).
Chieftain, forgettest thou to greet the lady?

Mac.
(turning to Argyll).
Nay, rather give, my lord, might I presume,
Our firstling cup to this fair lady's health,
The noble dame of this right princely house.
And though close veil'd she be, her beauty's lustre
I little question.
[Fills up a goblet, while Lochtarish, Benlora, &c. follow his example, and standing up, bow to the lady.
Your health, most noble dame!

[Helen, rising also, bows to him, and throws back her veil: the cup falls from his hands; all the company start up from table; screams and exclamations of surprise are heard from all corners of the hall, and confused commotion seen every where. Maclean, Lochtarish, and Glenfadden, stand appalled and motionless; but Benlora, looking fiercely round him, draws his sword.
Ben.
What! are we here like deer bay'd in a nook?
And think ye so to slay us, crafty foe?
No, by my faith! like such we will not fall,
Arms in our hands, though by a thousand foes
Encompass'd. Cruel, murderous, ruthless men,
Too good a warrant have you now to think us,
But cowards never!
Rouse ye, base Macleans!
And thou, whose subtlety around us thus
With wreckful skill these cursed toils hast wound,
Sinks thy base spirit now?

[To Lochtarish.
Arg.
(holding up his hand).
Be silence in the hall!
Macleans, ye are my guests; but if the feast
Delight you not, free leave ye have to quit it.
Lorne, see them all, with right due courtesy,
Safely protected to the castle gate.
[Turning to Maclean.
Here, other name than chieftain or Maclean
He may not give thee; but, without our walls,
If he should call thee murderer, traitor, coward,
Weapon to weapon, let your fierce contention
Be fairly held, and he, who first shall yield,
The liar be.—
Campbells! I charge you there,
Free passage for the chieftain and his train.

[Maclean and Lochtarish, &c., without speaking, quit the hall through the crowd of attendants, who divide, and form a line to let them pass. Helen, who had sunk down almost senseless upon her seat, seeing the hall cleared of the crowd, who go out after the Macleans, now starts up, and catches hold of Argyll with an imploring look of strong distress.
Helen.
O father! well I know foul are his crimes,
But what—O what, am I, that for my sake
This bloody strife should be?—O think, my lord!
He gave consent and sanction to my death,
But thereon could not look: and at your gate—
E'en on your threshold, must his life be ta'en?
For well I know the wrath of Lorne is deadly.
And gallant Lorne himself, if scath should be,—
O pity! pity!—O for pity stay them!

Arg.
Let go thy hold, weak woman: pity now!
Rosa, support her hence.

[Committing her to Rosa, who now comes forward, and tearing himself away.
Helen
(endeavouring to run after him, and catch hold of him again).
O be not stern! beneath the ocean rather
Would I had sunk to rest, than been the cause
Of horrid strife like this! O pity! pity!

[Exeunt, she running out after him distractedly.

SCENE IV.

Before the gate of the castle: a confused noise of an approaching crowd heard within, and presently enter, from the gate, Maclean, Benlora, Lochtarish, and Glenfadden, with their attendants, conducted by Lorne, and followed by a crowd of Campbells, who range themselves on both sides of the stage.
Lorne
(to Maclean).
Now, chieftain, we the gate have pass'd,—the bound
That did restrain us. Host and guest no more,
But deadly foes we stand, who from this spot
Shall never both with life depart. Now, turn,
And boldly say to him, if so thou darest,
Who calls thee villain, murd'rer, traitor, coward,
That he belies thee. Turn then, chief of Mull!
Here, man to man, my single arm to thine,
I give thee battle; or, refusing this,
Our captive here retain thee to be tried
Before the summon'd vassals of our clans,
As suits thy rank and thine atrocious deeds.
Take thou thy choice.

Mac.
Yes, John of Lorne, I turn.
This turf on which we tread my death-bed is;
This hour my latest term; this sky of light
The last that I shall look on. Draw thy sword:
The guilt of many crimes o'erwhelms my spirit
But never will I shame my brave Macleans,
By dying, as their chief, a coward's death.

Ben.
What! shalt thou fight alone, and we stand by
Idly to look upon it?
[Going up fiercely to Lorne.
Turn me out
The boldest, brawniest Campbell of your bands;
Ay, more than one, as many as you will;
And I the while, albeit these locks be grey,
Leaning my aged back against this tree,
Will show your youngsters how, in other days,
Macleans did fight, when baited round with foes.

Lorne.
Be still, Benlora; other sword than these,
Thy chief's and mine, shall not this day be drawn.
If I prevail against him, here with us
Our captives you remain. If I be conquer'd,
Upon the faith and honour of a chieftain,
Ye shall again to Mull in safety go.

Ben.
Spoken like a noble chieftain!

Lorne.
Ye shall, I say, to Mull in safety go.
But there prepare ye to defend your coast
Against a host of many thousand Campbells.
In which, be well assured, swords as good
As John of Lorne's, to better fortune join'd,
Shall of your crimes a noble vengeance take.

[Lorne and Maclean fight; and, after a combat of some length, Maclean is mortally wounded, and the Campbells give a loud shout.
Mac.
It is enough, brave Lorne; this wound is death:
And better deed thou couldst not do upon me,
Than rid me of a life disgraced and wretched.
But guilty though I be, thou seest full well,
That to the brave opposed, arms in hand,
I am no coward.—Oh! could I as bravely,
In home-raised broils, with violent men have striv'n,
It had been well: but there, alas! I proved
A poor, irresolute, and nerveless wretch.
[After a pause, and struggling for breath.
To live, alas! in good men's memories
Detested and contemn'd:—to be with her
For whom I thought to be—Come, gloomy grave!
Thou coverest all!
[After another painful struggle, every one standing in deep silence round him, and Lorne bending over him compassionately.
Pardon of man I ask not,
And merit not.—Brave Lorne, I ask it not;
Though in thy piteous eye a look I see
That might embolden me.—There is above
One who doth know the weakness of our nature,—
Our thoughts and conflicts:—all that e'er have breathed,
The bann'd and bless'd must pass to Him:—my soul
Into His hands, in humble penitence,
I do commit.

[Dies.
Lorne.
And may Heaven pardon thee, unhappy man!

Enter Argyll, and Helen following him, attended by Rosa.
Lorne
(to attendants).
Alas, prevent her!
[Endeavouring to keep her back.
Helen, come not hither:
This is no sight for thee.

Helen
(pressing forward, and seeing the body).
Oh! oh! and hast thou dealt with him so quickly,
Thou fell and ruthless Lorne?—No time allow'd?
[Kneeling by the body.
O that within that form sense still were lodged!
To hear my voice,—to know that in my heart
No thought of thee—Let others scan thy deeds,
Pitied and pardon'd art thou here.
[Her hand on her breast.
Alas!
So quickly fell on thee th' avenging stroke,
No sound of peace came to thy dying ear,
No look of pity to thy closing eyes!
Pitied and pardon'd art thou in this breast,
But canst not know it now.—Alas! alas!

Arg.
(to attendants).
Prepare ye speedily to move the body.
Mean time, our prisoners within the castle
Secure ye well.

[To other attendants, who lay hold of Lochtarish and Glenfadden, while Benlora, drawing his sword, attacks furiously those who attempt to seize and disarm him, and they, closing round and endeavouring to overpower him, he is mortally wounded in the scuffle.
Ben.
Ay, bear me now within your prison walls;
Alive indeed, thought ye to bind me? No.
Two years within your dungeons have I lived,
But lived for vengeance: closed that hope, the earth
Close o'er me too!—Alive to bind Benlora!

[Falls.
Lorne
(running up to him).
Ha! have ye slain him?—Fierce and warlike spirit!
I'm glad that thou hast had a soldier's death,
Arms in thy hands, all savage as thou art.
[Turning to Lochtarish and Glenfadden.
But thou, the artful, base, contriving villain,
Who hast of an atrocious, devilish act
The mover been, and this thy vile associate,
Prepare ye for the villains' shameful end,
Ye have so dearly earn'd.

[Waving his hand for the attendants to lead them off.
Loch.
Be not so hasty, Lorne.—Thinkst thou indeed
Ye have us here within your grasp, and nought
Of hostage or security retain'd
For our protection?

Lorne.
What dost thou mean?

Loch.
Deal with us as ye will:
But if within a week, return'd to Mull,
In safety I appear not, with his blood,
The helpless heir, thy sister's infant son,
Who in my mother's house our pledge is kept,
Must pay the forfeit.

Helen
(starting up from the body in an agony of alarm).
O horrible! ye will not murder him?
Murder a harmless infant!

Loch.
My aged mother, lady, loves her son
As thou dost thine; and she has sworn to do it.

Helen.
Has sworn to do it! Oh! her ruthless nature
Too well I know.
(To Lorne eagerly.)
Loose them, and let them go!

Lorne.
Let fiends like these escape?

Arg.
(to Helen).
He does but threaten
To move our fears: they dare not slay the child.

Helen.
They dare! they will!—O if thou art my father!
If Nature's hand e'er twined me to thy heart
As this poor child to mine, have pity on me!
Loose them and let them go!—Nay, do it quickly.
O what is vengeance? Spare my infant's life!
Unpitying Lorne!—art thou a brother too?
The hapless father's blood is on thy sword,
And wilt thou slay the child? O spare him! spare him!
[Kneeling to Argyll and Lorne, who stand irresolute, when enter Sir Hubert De Grey, carrying something in his arms, wrapped up in a mantle, and followed by Morton. On seeing Sir Hubert, she springs from the ground, and rushes forward to him.
Ha! art thou here? in blessed hour return'd
To join thy prayers with mine,—to move their hearts—
Their flinty hearts;—to bid them spare my child!

De Grey
(lifting up the mantle, and showing a sleeping child).
The prayer is heard already: look thou here
Beneath this mantle where he soundly sleeps.

[Helen utters a cry of joy, and holds out her arms for the child, but at the same time sinks to the ground, embracing the knees of Sir Hubert. Argyll and Lorne run up to him, and all their vassals, &c., crowding round close them about on every side, while a general murmur of exultation is heard through the whole. Lochtarish and Glenfadden, remaining on the side of the stage with those who guard them, are struck with astonishment and consternation.
Arg.
(to those who guard Lochtarish, &c. stepping forward from the crowd).
[The curtain drops.

THE MARTYR:

A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

MEN

• Nero, emperor of Rome.
• Cordenius Maro, officer of the imperial guard.
• Orceres, a Parthian prince, visiting Rome.
• Sulpicius, a senator.
• Sylvius, a brave centurion.
• Roman Pontiff.
• Christian father or bishop, Christian brother, &c.
• A page, in the family of Sulpicius.
• Senators, Christians, soldiers, &c.

WOMEN

• Portia, daughter of Sulpicius.
• Christian women.

Scene, Rome.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A private apartment in the house of Sulpicius.
Enter Sulpicius and Orceres by opposite sides.
Sul.
So soon return'd!—I read not in thy face
Aught to encourage or depress my wishes.
How is it, noble friend?

Or.
E'en as it was ere I received my mission.
Cordenius Maro is on public duty;
I have not seen him.—When he knows your offer,
His heart will bound with joy, like eaglet plumed,
Whose outstretch'd pinions, wheeling round and round,
Shape their first circles in the sunny air.

Sul.
And with good cause.

Or.
Methinks I see him now!
A face with blushes mantling to the brow,
Eyes with bright tears surcharged, and parted lips
Quiv'ring to utter joy which hath no words.

Sul.
His face, indeed, as I have heard thee say,
Is like a wave which sun and shadow cross;
Each thought makes there its momentary mark.

Or.
And then his towering form, and vaulting step,
As tenderness gives way to exultation!
O! it had been a feast to look upon him;
And still shall be.

Sul.
Art thou so well convinced
He loves my little damsel?—She is fair,
But seems to me too simple, gay, and thoughtless,
For noble Maro. Heiress as she is
To all my wealth, had I suspected sooner,
That he had smother'd wishes in his breast
As too presumptuous, or that she in secret
Preferr'd his silent homage to the praise
Of any other man, I had most frankly
Removed all hindrance to so fair a suit.
For, in these changeling and degenerate days,
I scarcely know a man of nobler worth.

Or.
Thou scarcely knowst! Say certainly thou dost not.
He is, to honest right, as simply true
As shepherd child on desert pasture bred,
Where falsehood and deceit have never been;
And to maintain them, ardent, skilful, potent,
As the shrewd leader of unruly tribes.
A simple heart and subtle spirit join'd
Make such an union, as in Nero's court
May pass for curious and unnatural.

Sul.
But is the public duty very urgent
That so untowardly delays our happiness?

Or.
The punishment of those poor Nazarenes,
Who, in defiance of imperial power,
To their forbidden faith and rights adhere
With obstinacy most astonishing.

Sul.
A stubborn contumacy, unaccountable!

Or.
There's sorcery in it, or some stronger power.
But be it what it may, or good, or ill,
They look on death in its most dreadful form,
As martial heroes on a wreath of triumph.
The fires are kindled in the place of death,
And bells toll dismally. The life of Rome
In one vast clust'ring mass hangs round the spot,
And no one to his neighbour utters word,
But in an alter'd voice, with breath restrain'd,
Like those who speak at midnight near the dead.
Cordenius heads the band that guards the pile;
So station'd, who could speak to him of pleasure?
My words had come like sounds of evil omen.

Sul.
Cease; here comes Portia, with a careless face:
She knows not yet the happiness that waits her.

Or.
Who brings she with her thus, as if compell'd
By playful force?

Sul.
'Tis her Numidian page; a cunning imp,
Who must be woo'd to do the thing he's proud of.

Enter Portia, dragging Syphax after her, speaking as she enters.
Portia.
Come in, deceitful thing!—I know thee well;
With all thy sly affected bashfulness,
Thou'rt bold enough to sing in Cæsar's court,
With the whole senate present.
(To Orceres.)
Prince of Parthia,
I knew not you were here; but yet I guess
The song which this sly creature sings so well,
Will please you also.

Or.
How can it fail, fair Portia, so commended?

Sul.
What is this boasted lay?

Portia.
That tune, my father,
Which you so oft have tried to recollect;
But link'd with other words, of new device,
That please my fancy well.—Come, sing it, boy!

Sul.
Nay, sing it, Syphax, be not so abash'd,
If thou art really so.—Begin, begin!
But speak thy words distinctly as thou singst,
That I may have their meaning perfectly.

Or.
The picture of some very noble hero
These lines pourtray.

Sul.
So it should seem; one of the days of old.

Portia.
And why of olden days? There liveth now
The very man—a man—I mean to say,
There may be found among our Roman youth,
One, who in form and feelings may compare
With him, whose lofty virtues these few lines
So well describe.

Or.
Thou meanst the lofty Gorbus.

Portia.
Out on the noisy braggart. Arms without
He hath, indeed, well burnish'd and well plumed,
But the poor soul, within, is pluck'd and bare,
Like any homely thing.

Or.
Sertorius Galba then?

Portia.
O, stranger still!
For if he hath no lack of courage, certes,
He hath much lack of grace. Sertorius Galba!

Or.
Perhaps thou meanst Cordenius Maro, lady.
Thy cheeks grow scarlet at the very name,
Indignant that I still should err so strangely.

Portia.
No, not indignant, for thou errest not;
Nor do I blush, albeit thou thinkst I do,
To say, there is not of our Romans one,
Whose martial form a truer image gives
Of firm heroic courage.

Sul.
Cease, sweet Portia!
He only laughs at thy simplicity.

Or.
Simplicity seen through a harmless wile,
Like to the infant urchin, half conceal'd
Behind his smiling dam's transparent veil.
The song is not a stranger to mine ear,
Methinks I've heard it passing through those wilds,
Whose groves and caves, if rumour speak the truth,
Are by the Nazarenes or Christians haunted.

Sul.
Let it no more be sung within my walls:
A chaunt of their's to bring on pestilence!
Sing it no more. What sounds are those I hear?

Or.
The dismal death-drum and the crowd without.
They are this instant leading past your door
Those wretched Christians to their dreadful doom.

Sul.
We'll go and see them pass.

[Exeunt hastily, Sulpicius, Orceres.
Portia
(stopping her ears).
I cannot look on them, nor hear the sound.
I'll to my chamber.

Page.
May not I, I pray,
Look on them as they pass?

Portia.
No; go not, child:
'Twill frighten thee; it is a horrid sight.

Page.
Yet, an it please you, lady, let me go.

Portia.
I say it is a horrid, piteous sight,
Thou wilt be frighten'd at it.

Page.
Nay, be it e'er so piteous or so horrid,
I have a longing, strong desire to see it.

Portia.
Go then; in this there is no affectation:
There's all the harden'd cruelty of man
Lodged in that tiny form, child as thou art.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

An open square, with buildings.
Enter Cordenius Maro, at the head of his soldiers, who draw up on either side; then enters a long procession of public functionaries, &c., conducting martyrs to the place of execution, who, as they pass on, sing together in unison: one, more noble than the others, walking first.
[Exeunt martyrs, &c. &c. Cordenius with his officers and soldiers still remaining; the officers on the front, and Cordenius apart from them in a thoughtful posture.
1st offi.
Brave Varus marches boldly at the head
Of that deluded band.

2d offi.
Are these the men who hateful orgies hold,
In dens and deserts with enchantments wooing
The intercourse of demons?

3d offi.
Ay, with rites
Cruel and wild. To crucify a babe,
And, while it yet hangs shrieking on the rood,
Fall down and worship it! device abominable!

1st offi.
Dost thou believe it?

3d offi.
I can believe or this or any thing
Of the possess'd and mad.

1st offi.
What demonry, thinkst thou, possesses Varus?

2d offi.
That is well urged. (To the other.)
Is he a maniac?
Alas, that I should see so brave a soldier
Thus, as a malefactor, led to death!

1st offi.
Viewing his keen enliven'd countenance
And stately step, one should have rather guess'd
He led victorious soldiers to the charge:
And they, indeed, appear'd to follow him
With noble confidence.

3d offi.
'Tis all vain seeming.
He is a man, who makes a show of valour
To which his deeds have borne slight testimony.

Cor.
(advancing indignantly).
Thou liest; a better and a braver soldier
Ne'er fronted foe, nor closed in bloody strife.

[Turning away angrily to the background.
1st offi.
Our chief, methinks, is in a fretful mood,
Which is not usual with him.

2d offi.
He did not seem to listen to our words,
Yet they have moved him keenly.—
But see, he gives the signal to proceed;
We must advance, and with our closing ranks
The fatal pile encircle.

[Exeunt in order, whilst a chorus of martyrs is heard at a distance.

SCENE III.

An apartment in a private house.
Enter two Christian Women by opposite sides.
1st woman.
Hast thou heard any thing?

2d woman.
Nought, save the murmur of the multitude,
Sinking at times to deep and awful silence,
From which again a sudden burst will rise
Like mingled exclamations, as of horror
Or admiration. In these neighbouring streets
I have not met a single citizen,
The town appearing uninhabited.
But wherefore art thou here? Thou shouldst have stay'd
With the unhappy mother of poor Cælus.

1st woman.
She sent me hither in her agony
Of fear and fearful hope.

2d woman.
Ha! does she hope deliverance from death?

1st woman.
O no! thou wrongst her, friend; it is not that:
Deliverance is her fear, and death her hope.
A second time she bears a mother's throes
For her young stripling, whose exalted birth
To endless life is at this fearful crisis,
Or earn'd or lost. May heaven forefend the last!
He is a timid youth, and soft of nature:
God grant him strength to bear that fearful proof!

2d woman.
Here comes our reverend father.
Enter a Christian Father.
What tidings dost thou bring? are they in bliss?

Father.
Yes, daughter, as I trust, they are ere this
In high immortal bliss. Cælus alone—

1st woman.
He hath apostatised! O woe is me!
O woe is me for his most wretched mother!

Father
Apostatised! No; stripling as he is,
His fortitude, where all were braced and brave,
Shone paramount.
For his soft downy cheek and slender form
Made them conceive they might subdue his firmness:
Therefore he was reserved till noble Varus
And his compeers had in the flames expired
Then did they court and tempt him with fair promise
Of all that earthly pleasure or ambition
Can offer, to deny his holy faith.
But he, who seem'd before so meek and timid,
Now suddenly imbued with holy grace,
Like the transition of some watery cloud
In passing o'er the moon's refulgent disc,
Glow'd with new life; and from his fervid tongue
Words of most firm indignant constancy
Pour'd eloquently forth; then to the pile
Sprang he as lightly as a dauntless warrior
Scaling the breach of honour; or, alas!
As I have seen him 'midst his boyish mates,
Vaulting aloft for very love of motion.

1st woman.
High heaven be praised for this!—
thine eyes beheld it?

Father.
I saw it not: the friend who witness'd it,
Left him yet living 'midst devouring flame;
Therefore I spoke of Cælus doubtfully,
If he as yet belong'd to earth or heaven.

[They cover their faces, and remain silent.
Enter a Christian Brother.
Brother.
Lift up your heads, my sisters! let your voices
In grateful thanks be raised! Those ye lament,
Have earthly pangs for heavenly joy exchanged.
The manly Varus, and the youthful Cælus,
The lion and the dove, yoke-fellows link'd,
Have equal bliss and equal honour gain'd.

st woman.
And praised be God, who makes the weakest strong!
I'll to his mother with the blessed tidings.

[Exit.
Father.
Let us retire and pray. How soon our lives
May have like ending, God alone doth know!
O! may like grace support us in our need!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

An open space in front of a temple.
Enter Cordelius, as returned from the execution with his soldiers, who, upon a signal from him, disperse and leave him alone. He walks a few paces slowly, then stops, and continues for a short time in a thoughtful posture.
Cor.
There is some power in this, or good or ill,
Surpassing nature. When the soul is roused
To desp'rate sacrifice, 'tis ardent passion,
Or high exalted virtue that excites it.
Can loathsome demonry in dauntless bearing
Outdo the motives of the lofty brave?
It cannot be! There is some power in this
Mocking all thought—incomprehensible.
[Remains for a moment silent and thoughtful, while Sylvius enters behind him unperceived.
Delusion! ay, 'tis said the cheated sight
Will see unreal things; the cheated ear
List to sweet sounds that are not; even the reason
Maintain conclusions wild and inconsistent.
We hear of this:—the weak may be deluded;
But is the learn'd, th' enlighten'd noble Varus
The victim of delusion?—Can it be?
I'll not believe it.

Sylvius
(advancing to him).
No, believe it not.

Cor.
(starting).
Ha! one so near me!
I have seen thy face before; but where? who art thou?

Sylvius.
E'en that Centurion of the Seventh Legion,
Who, with Cordenius Maro, at the siege
Of Fort Volundum, mounted first the breach;
And kept the clust'ring enemy in check,
Till our encouraged Romans followed us.

Cor.
My old companion then, the valiant Sylvius,
Thou'st done hard service since I saw thee last:
Thy countenance is mark'd with graver lines
Than in those greener days: I knew thee not.
Where goest thou now? I'll bear thee company.

Sylvius.
I thank thee: yet thou mayst not go with me.
The way that I am wending suits not thee,
Though suiting well the noble and the brave.
It were not well, in fiery times like these,
To tempt thy generous mind.

Cor.
What dost thou mean?

Sylvius
(after looking cautiously round to see that nobody is near).
Did I not hear thee commune with thyself
Of that most blessed Martyr gone to rest,
Varus Dobella?

Cor.
How blessed? My unsettled thoughts were busy
With things mysterious; with those magic powers
That work the mind to darkness and destruction;
With the sad end of the deluded Varus.

Sylvius.
Not so, not so! The wisest prince on earth,
With treasured wealth and armies at command,
Ne'er earn'd withal such lofty exaltation
As Varus now enjoys.

Cor.
Thy words amaze me, friend; what is their meaning?

Sylvius.
They cannot be explain'd with hasty speech
In such a place. If thou wouldst really know—
And may such light—

Cor.
Why dost thou check thy words,
And look so much disturb'd, like one in doubt?

Sylvius.
What am I doing? Zeal, perhaps, betrays me.
Yet, wherefore hide salvation from a man
Who is so worthy of it?

Cor.
Why art thou agitated thus? What moves thee?

Sylvius.
And wouldst thou really know it?

Cor.
Dost thou doubt me?
I have an earnest, most intense desire.

Sylvius.
Sent to thy heart, brave Roman, by a Power
Which I may not resist.
[Bowing his head.
But go not with me now in open day.
At fall of eve I'll meet thee in the suburb,
Close to the pleasure-garden of Sulpicius;
Where in a bushy crevice of the rock
There is an entry to the catacombs,
Known but to few.

Cor.
Ha! to the catacombs!

Syl.
A dismal place, I own, but heed not that;
For there thou'lt learn what, to thy ardent mind,
Will make this world but as a thorny pass
To regions of delight; man's natural life,
With all its varied turmoil of ambition,
But as the training of a wayward child
To manly excellence; yea, death itself
But as a painful birth to life uncnding.
The word eternal has not to thine ears,
As yet, its awful, ample sense convey'd.

Cor.
Something possesses thee.

Sylvius.
Yes, noble Maro;
But it is something which can ne'er possess
A mind that is not virtuous.—Let us part;
It is expedient now.—All good be with thee!

Cor.
And good be with thee, also, valiant soldier!

Sylvius
(returning as he is about to go out).
At close of day, and near the pleasure-garden,—
The garden of Sulpicius.

Cor.
I know the spot, and will not fail to meet thee.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Catacombs, showing long low-roofed aisles, in different directions, supported by thick pillars of the rough unhewn rock, with rude tombs and heaps of human bones, and the walls in many places lined with human skulls.
Enter Cordenius Maro, speaking to a Christian Father, on whose arm he leans, and followed by Sylvius.
Cor.
One day and two bless'd nights, spent in acquiring
Your heavenly lore, so powerful and sublime.—
Oh! what an alter'd creature they have made me!

Father.
Yes, gentle son, I trust that thou art alter'd.

Cor.
I am, methinks, like one who, with bent back
And downward gaze—if such an one might be—
Hath only known the boundless azure sky
By the strait circle of reflected beauty,
Seen in the watery gleam of some deep pit:
Till on a sudden roused, he stands erect,
And wondering looks aloft and all around
On the bright sunny firmament:—like one
(Granting again that such an one might be)
Who hath but seen the element of fire
On household hearth or woodman's smoky pile,
And looks at once, 'mid 'stounding thunder-peals,
On Jove's magnificence of lightning.—Pardon,
I pray you pardon me! I mean His lightning,
Who is the Jove of Jove, the great Jehovah.

Father
(smiling).
Be not disturb'd, my son; the lips will utter,
From lengthen'd habit, what the mind rejects.

Cor.
These blessed hours, which I have pass'd with you,
Have to my intellectual being given
New feelings and expansion, like to that
Which once I felt, on viewing by degrees
The wide developement of nature's amplitude.

Father.
And how was that, my son?

Cor.
I well remember it; even at this moment
Imagination sees it all again.
'Twas on a lofty mountain of Armenia,
O'er which I led by night my martial cohort,
To shun the fierce heat of a summer's day.
Close round us hung, the vapours of the night
Had form'd a woofy curtain, dim and pale,
Through which the waning moon did faintly mark
Its slender crescent.

Father.
Ay, the waned moon through midnight vapours seen,
Fit emblem is of that retrenching light,
Dubious and dim, which to the earliest patriarchs
Was at the first vouchsafed; a moral guide,
Soon clouded and obscured to their descendants,
Who peopled far and wide, in scatter'd tribes,
The fertile earth.—But this is interruption.
Proceed, my son.

Cor.
Well, on the lofty summit
We halted, and the day's returning light
On this exalted station found us. Then
Our brighten'd curtain, wearing into shreds
And rifted masses, through its opening gave
Glimpse after glimpse of slow revealed beauty,
Which held th' arrested senses magic-bound,
In the intensity of charm'd attention.

Father.
From such an eminence the op'ning mist
Would to the eye reveal most beauteous visions.

Cor.
First, far beneath us, woody peaks appear'd
And knolls with cedars crested; then, beyond,
And lower still, the herdsmen's cluster'd dwellings,
With pasture slopes, and flocks just visible;
Then, further still, soft wavy wastes of forest,
In all the varied tints of sylvan verdure,
Descending to the plain; then, wide and boundless,
The plain itself, with towns and cultured tracts,
And its fair river gleaming in the light,
With all its sweepy windings, seen and lost,
And seen again, till through the pale grey tint
Of distant space, it seem'd a loosen'd cestus
From virgin's tunic blown; and still beyond,
The earth's extended vastness from the sight
Wore like the boundless ocean.
My heart beat rapidly at the fair sight—
This ample earth, man's natural habitation.
But now, when to my mental eye reveal'd,
His moral destiny, so grand and noble,
Lies stretching on even to immensity,
It overwhelms me with a flood of thoughts,
Of happy thoughts.

Father.
Thanks be to God that thou dost feel it so!

Cor.
I am most thankful for the words of power
Which from thy gifted lips and sacred scripture
I have received. What feelings they have raised!
O what a range of thought given to the mind!
And to the soul what loftiness of hope!
That future dreamy state of faint existence
Which poets have described and sages taught,
In which the brave and virtuous pined and droop'd
In useless indolence, changed for a state
Of social love, and joy, and active bliss,—
A state of brotherhood,—a state of virtue,
So grand, so purified;—O it is excellent!
My soul is roused within me at the sound,
Like some poor slave, who from a dungeon issues
To range with free-born men his native land.

Father.
Thou mayst, indeed, my son, redeem'd from thraldom,
Become the high compeer of blessed spirits.

Cor.
The high compeer of such!—These gushing tears,
Nature's mysterious tears, will have their way.

Father.
To give thy heart relief.

Cor.
And yet mysterious. Why do we weep
At contemplation of exalted virtue?
Perhaps in token of the fallen state
In which we are, as thrilling sympathy
Strangely acknowledges some sight and sound,
Connected with a dear and distant home,
Albeit the memory that link hath lost:—
A kind of latent sense of what we were,
Or might have been; a deep mysterious token.

Father.
Perhaps thou'rt right, my son; for e'en the wicked
Will sometimes weep at lofty, generous deeds.
Some broken traces of our noble nature
Were yet preserved; therefore our great Creator
Still loved His work, and thought it worth redemption:
Therefore His generous Son, our blessed Master,
Did, as the elder brother of that race,
Whose form He took, lay down His life to save us,
But I have read thee, from our sacred book,
His gentle words of love.

Cor.
Thou hast! thou hast! they're stirring in my heart:
Each fibre of my body thrills in answer
To the high call.—

Father.
The Spirit of Power, my son, is dealing with thee.

Cor.
(after a pause).
One thing amazes me,— yet it is excellent.

Father.
And what amazes thee? Unbosom freely
What passes in thy mind.

Cor.
That this religion which dilates our thoughts
Of God Supreme to an infinity
Of awful greatness, yet connects us with him,
As children, loved and cherish'd;—
Adoring awe with tenderness united.

Sylvius
(eagerly).
Ay, brave Cordenius, that same thought more moved
My rude unletter'd mind than all the rest.
I struck my hand against my soldier's mail,
And cried, “This faith is worthy of a man!”

Cor.
Our best philosophers have raised their thoughts
To one great universal Lord of all,
Lord even of Jove himself and all the gods;
Yet who durst feel for that high, distant Essence,
A warmer sentiment than deep submission?
But now, adoring love and grateful confidence
Cling to th' infinity of power and goodness,
As the repentant child turns to his sire
With yearning looks, that say, “Am I not thine?”
I am too bold: I should be humbled first
In penitence and sorrow, for the stains
Of many a hateful vice and secret passion.

Father.
Check not the generous tenor of thy thoughts:
O check it not! Love leads to penitence,
And is the noblest, surest path; while fear
Is dark and devious. To thy home return,
And let thy mind well weigh what thou hast heard.
If then thou feel within thee faith assured;
That faith, which may, e'en through devouring flames,
Its passage hold to heaven, baptismal rites
Shall give thee entrance to a purer life,
Receive thee, as thy Saviour's valiant soldier,
For His high warfare arm'd.

Cor.
I am resolved, and feel that in my heart
There lives that faith; baptize me ere we part.

Father.
So be it then. But yet that holy rite
Must be deferr'd; for, lo! our brethren come,
Bearing the ashes of our honour'd saints,
Which must, with hymns of honour, be received.

Enter Christians, seen advancing slowly along one of the aisles, and bearing a large veiled urn, which they set down near the front. They then lift off the veil and range themselves round it, while one sings and the rest join in the chorus at the end of each short verse.
Cor.
(to father).
And ye believe those, who a few hours since
Were clothed in flesh and blood, and here, before us,
Lie thus, e'en to a few dry ashes changed,
Are now exalted spirits, holding life
With blessed powers, and agencies, and all
Who have on earth a virtuous part fulfill'd?
The dear redeem'd of Godlike love, again
To their primeval destiny restored?
It is a generous, powerful, noble faith.

Sylvius.
Did I not tell thee, as we pass'd along,
It well became a Roman and a soldier?

Father.
Nay, worthy Sylvius, somewhat more of meekness
And less of martial ardour were becoming
In those, whose humble Lord stretch'd forth His hand,
His saving hand, to e'en the meanest slave
Who bends beneath an earthly master's rod.
This faith is meet for all of human kind.

Cor.
Forgive him, father: see, he stands reproved;
His heart is meek, though ardent;
It is, indeed, a faith for all mankind.

Father.
We feel it such, my son, press'd as we are;
On every side beset with threatening terrors.
Look on these ghastly walls, these shapeless pillars,
These heaps of human bones,—this court of death;
E'en here, as in a temple, we adore
The Lord of Life, and sing our song of hope,
That death has lost its sting, the grave its triumph.

Cor.
O make me then the partner of your hopes!
[Taking the hand of Sylvius, and then of several other Christians.
Brave men! high destined souls! immortal beings!
The blessed faith and sense of what we are
Comes on my heart, like streams of beamy light
Pour'd from some opening cloud. O to conceive
What lies beyond the dim, dividing veil
Of regions bright, of blest and glorious being!

Father.
Ay, when it is withdrawn, we shall behold
What heart hath ne'er conceived, nor tongue could utter.

Cor.
When but a boy, I've gazed upon the sky,
With all its sparks of light, as a grand cope
For the benighted world. But now my fancy
Will greet each twinkling star, as the bright lamp
Of some fair angel on his guardian watch.
And think ye not, that from their lofty stations
Our future glorious home, our Father's house,
May lie within the vast and boundless ken
Of such seraphic powers?

Father.
Thy fancy soars on wide and buoyant wings;
Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ardour.

Cor.
This solid earth is press'd bencath our feet,
But as a step from which to take our flight;
What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be,
Serving its end?—Come, noble Sylvius!
We've been companions in the broil of battle,
Now be we fellow-soldiers in that warfare
Which best becomes the brave.

Sylvius.
Cordenius Maro, we shall be companions
When this wide earth with all its fields of blood
Where war hath raged, and all its towers of strength
Which have begirded been with iron hosts,
Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun
Is in his course extinguish'd.

Cor.
Come, lead me, father, to the holy fount,
If I in humble penitence may be
From worldly vileness clear'd.

Father.
I gladly will, my son. The Spirit of Grace
Is dealing with thy spirit: be received,
A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship
Of all the good and bless'd in earth and heaven! Enter a Convert.

Whence com'st thou, Fearon? Why wast thou prevented
From joining in our last respectful homage
To those, who have so nobly for the truth
Laid down their lives?

Convert.
I have been watching near the grated dungeon
Where Ethocles, the Grecian, is immured.

Father.
Thou sayst not so! A heavier loss than this,
If they have seized on him, the righteous cause
Could not have suffer'd. Art thou sure of it?
We had not heard of his return from Syria.

Convert.
It is too true: he landed ten days since
On the Brundusian coast, and, as he enter'd
The gates of Rome, was seized and dragg'd to prison.

Father.
And we in utter ignorance of this!

Convert.
He travell'd late and unaccompanied,
So this was done at nightfall and conceal'd.
But see his writing given me by a guard,
Who has for pity's sake betray'd his trust:
It is address'd to thee.

[Giving him a paper.
Father
(after reading it).
Alas, alas! it is a brief account
Of his successful labours in the East:
For with his excellent gifts of eloquence,
Learning, and prudence, he has made more converts
Than all our zealous brotherhood beside.
What can we do? He will be sacrificed:
The church in him must bleed, if God so wills.
It is a dreadful blow.

Cor.
(to the convert).
I pray thee, in what prison is he kept?

Convert.
In Sylla's tower, that dwelling of despair.

Cor.
Guarded by Romans?

Convert.
Yes; and strongly guarded.

Cor.
Yet, he shall be released.

Father
(to Cordenius).
Beware, my son, of rash, imprudent zeal:
The truth hath suffer'd much from this; beware:
Risk not thyself: thy life is also precious.

Cor.
My whole of life is precious: but this shred,
This earthly portion of it, what is that,
But as it is employ'd in holy acts?
Am I Christ's soldier at a poorer rate
Than I have served an earthly master? No;
I feel within my glowing breast a power
Which says I am commission'd for this service.
Give me thy blessing—thy baptismal blessing,
And then God's spirit guide me! Serving God,
I will not count the cost but to discharge it.

Father.
His will direct thee then, my gen'rous son!
His blessing be upon thee!—Lead him, Sylvius,
To the blest fount, where from his former sins
He shall by heavenly grace be purified.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The garden of Sulpicius.
Enter Sulpicius and Portia, with flowers in her hand.
Portia.
Was it not well to rise with early morn
And pay my homage to sweet Flora? Never
Were flowers by mid-day cull'd, so fair, so fragrant,
With blending streaky tints, so fresh and bright.
See: twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell,
And on the fibred leaves stray far apart,
Like little rounded gems of silver sheen,
While curling tendrils grasp with vigorous hold
The stem that bears them! All looks young and fresh.
The very spider through his circled cage
Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended,
Scarce seems a loathly thing, but like the small
Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph.
Is it not so, my father?

Sul.
Yes, morn and youth and freshness sweetly join,
And are the emblems of dear changeful days.
By night those beauteous things—

Portia.
And what of night?
Why do you check your words? You are not sad?

Sul.
No, Portia; only angry with myself
For crossing thy gay stream of youthful thoughts
With those of sullen age. Away with them!
What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft and silken,
Are gather'd into dank and wrinkled folds
When evening chills them, or upon the earth,
With broken stems and buds torn and dispersed,
Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft
When midnight winds pass o'er them; be it so!
All things but have their term.
In truth, my child, I'm glad that I indulged thee
By coming forth at such an early hour
To pay thy worship to so sweet a goddess,
Upon her yearly feast.

Portia.
I thank you, father! On her feast, 'tis said,
That she, from mortal eye conceal'd, vouchsafes
Her presence in such sweet and flowery spots:
And where due offerings on her shrine are laid,
Blesses all seeds and shoots, and things of promise.

Sul.
How many places in one little day
She needs must visit then!

Portia.
But she moves swift as thought. The hasty zephyr,
That stirr'd each slender leaf, now as we enter'd,
And made a sudden sound, by stillness follow'd,
Might be the rapid rustling of her robe.

Sul.
A pleasing fancy, Portia, for the moment,
Yet wild as pleasing.

Portia.
Wherefore call it wild?
Full many a time I've listen'd when alone
In such fair spots as this, and thought I heard
Sweet mingled voices uttering varied tones
Of question and reply, pass on the wind,
And heard soft steps upon the ground; and then
The notion of bright Venus or Diana,
Or goddess-nymphs, would come so vividly
Into my mind, that I am almost certain
Their radiant forms were near me, though conceal'd
By subtle drapery of the ambient air.
And oh, how I have long'd to look upon them!
An ardent strange desire, though mix'd with fear.
Nay, do not smile, my father: such fair sights
Were seen — were often seen in ancient days:
The poets tell us so.
But look, the Indian roses I have foster'd
Are in full bloom; and I must gather them.

[Exit eagerly.
Sul.
(alone).
Go, gentle creature, thou art careless yet.
Ah! couldst thou so remain, and still with me
Be as in years gone by!—It may not be;
Nor should I wish it: all things have their season:
She may not now remain an old man's treasure,
With all her woman's beauty grown to blossom. Enter Orceres.

The Parthian prince at such an early hour?

Or.
And who considers hours, whose heart is bent
On what concerns a lover and a friend?
Where is thy daughter?

Sul.
Within yon flowery thicket, blithe and careless;
For though she loves, 'tis with sweet, maiden fancy,
That, not impatient, looks in cheering hope
To future years.

Or.
Ay, 'tis a shelter'd passion,
A cradled love, by admiration foster'd:
A showy, toward nurse for babe so bashful.
Thus in the shell, athwart whose snowy lining
Each changeful tint of the bright rainbow plays,
A little pearl is found, in secret value
Surpassing all the rest.

Sul.
But sayst thou nothing
Of what I wish to hear? What of Cordenius?

Or.
By my good war-bow and its barbed shafts!
By the best war-horse archer e'er bestrode!
I'm still in ignorance; I have not seen him.

Sul.
Thou hast not seen him! this is very strange.

Or.
So it indeed appears.—My wayward friend
Has from his home been absent. Yesterday,
There and elsewhere I sought, but found him not.
This morning by the dawn again I sought him,
Thinking to find him surely and alone;
But his domestics, much amazed, have told me,
He is not yet return'd.

Sul.
Hush! through yon thicket I perceive a man.

Or.
Some thief or spy.

Sul.
Let us withdraw awhile,
And mark his motions; he observes us not.

Enter Cordenius from a thicket in the background.
Cor.
(after looking round him with delight).
Sweet light of day, fair sky, and verdant earth,
Enrich'd with every beauteous herb and flower,
And stately trees, that spread their boughs, like tents,
For shade and shelter, how I hail you now!
Ye are His works, who made such fair abodes
For happy innocence, yet, in the wreck
Of foul perversion, has not cast us off.
[Stooping to look at the flowers.
Ye little painted things, whose varied hues
Charm, e'en to wonderment; that mighty hand
Which dyes the mountain's peak with rosy tints
Sent from the rising sun, and to the barb'd
Destructive lightning gives its ruddy gleam,
Grand and terrific, thus adorns even you!
There is a father's full unstinted love
Display'd o'er all, and thus on all I gaze
With the keen thrill of new-waked ecstasy.
What voice is that so near me and so sweet?

Portia without, singing some notes of prelude, and then a song.
Cor.
Her voice indeed, and this my fav'rite song!
It is that gentle creature, my sweet Portia.
I call her mine, because she is the image
Which hath possess'd my fancy. Such vain thoughts
Must now give place. I will not linger here.
This is the garden of Sulpicius;
How have I miss'd my path? She sings again.
[Sings without, as before.
She wanders fitfully from lay to lay,
But all of them some air that I have praised
In happy hours gone by.

Cor.
O gentle, sweet, and cheerful! form'd to be
Whate'er my heart could prize of treasured love!
Dear as thou art, I will not linger here.

Re-enter Sulpicius and Orceres, breaking out upon him, and Orceres catching hold of his robe as he is going off.
Or.
Ha! noble Maro, to a coward turn'd,
Shunning a spot of danger!

Sul.
Stay, Cordenius.
The fellest foe thou shalt contend with here,
Is she thou callst so gentle. As for me,
I do not offer thee this hand more freely
Than I will grant all that may make thee happy,
If Portia has that power.

Cor.
And dost thou mean, in very earnest mean,
That thou wilt give me Portia—thy dear Portia?
My fancy catches wildly at thy words.

Sul.
And truly too, Cordenius. She is thine,
If thou wilt promise me to love her truly.

Cor.
(eagerly clasping the knees, and then kissing the hands of Sulpicius).
Thanks, thanks! —thanks from my swoln, o'erflowing heart,
Which has no words.—Friend, father, Portia's father!
The thought creates in me such sudden joy,
I am bewilder'd with it.

Sul.
Calm thy spirits.—
Thou shouldst in meeter form have known it sooner,
Had not the execution of those Christians—
(Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile,
With all their kind, I would most gladly punish,)
Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orceres—
Thou owest him thanks—pled for thee powerfully,
And had my leave. But dost thou listen to me?
Thy face wears many colours, and big drops
Burst from thy brow, whilst thy contracted lips
Quiver, like one in pain.

Or.
What sudden illness racks thee?

Cor.
I may not tell you now: let me depart.

Sul.
(holding him).
Thou art my promised son; I have a right
To know whate'er concerns thee,—pain or pleasure.

Cor.
And so thou hast, and I may not deceive thee.
Take, take, Sulpicius.—O such with'ring words!
The sinking, sick'ning heart and parched mouth!
I cannot utter them.

Sul.
Why in this agony of perturbation?
Nay, strive not now to speak.

Cor.
I must, I must!—
Take back thy proffer'd gift; all earth could give;—
That which it cannot give I must retain.

Sul.
What words were these? If it were possible,
I could believe thee touch'd with sorcery,
The cursed art of those vile Nazarenes.
Where hast thou pass'd the night? their haunts are near.

Or.
Nay, nay; repress thine anger; noble Maro
May not be question'd thus.

Sul.
He may and shall. And yet I will not urge him,
If he, with hand press'd on his breast, will say,
That he detests those hateful Nazarenes.

Cor.
No; though my life, and what is dearer far,
My Portia's love, depended on the words,
I would not, and I durst not utter them.

Sul.
I see it well: thou art ensnared and blinded
By their enchantments. Demoniac power
Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off;
Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse
With this detested sect. Art thou a madman?

Cor.
If I am mad, that which possesses me
Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught,
Or poets e'er imagined.—Listen to me.
Call ye these Christians vile, because they suffer
Pains nature shrinks from, rather than deny
What seems to them the truth? Call ye them sorcerers,
Because their words impart such high conceptions
Of power creative and parental love,
In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart
Bound with ennobling thoughts? Call ye them curst,
Who daily live in steady strong assurance
Of endless blessedness? O, listen to me!

Re-enter Portia, bursting from a thicket close to them.
Portia.
O, listen to him, father!

Sul.
Let go my robe, fond creature! Listen to him!
The song of syrens were less fatal. Charms
Of dire delusion, luring on to ruin,
Are mingled with the words that speak their faith;
They, who once hear them, flutter round destruction
With giddy fascination, like the moth,
Which, shorn of half its form, all scorch'd and shrivell'd,
Still to the torch returns. I will not listen;
No, Portia, nor shalt thou.

Portia.
O, say not so!
For if you listen to him, you may save him,
And win him from his errors.

Sul.
Vain hope! vain hope! What is man's natural reason
Opposed to demon subtlety? Cordenius!
Cordenius Maro! I adjure thee, go!
Leave me; why wouldst thou pull destruction on me?
On one who loved thee so, that though possess'd
Of but one precious pearl, most dearly priz'd,
Prized more than life, yet would have given it to thee.
I needs must weep: e'en for thyself I weep.

Cor.
Weep not, my kind Sulpicius! I will leave thee,
Albeit the pearl thou wouldst bestow upon me
Is, in my estimation, dearer far
Than life, or power, or fame, or earthly thing.
When these fierce times are past, thou wilt, perhaps,
Think of me with regard, but not with pity,
How fell soe'er my earthly end hath been,
For I shall then be blest. And thou, dear Portia,
Wilt thou remember me? That thought, alas!
Dissolves my soul in weakness.—
O, to be spared, if it were possible,
This stroke of agony! Is it not possible,
That I might yet—Almighty God forgive me!
Weak thoughts will lurk in the devoted heart,
But not be cherish'd there. I may not offer
Aught short of all to Thee!—
Farewell, farewell! sweet Portia, fare thee well!
[Orceres catches hold of him to prevent his going.
Retain me not: I am a Parthian now.
My strength is in retreat.

[Exit.
Portia.
That noble mind! and must it then be ruin'd?
O save him, save him, father! Brave Orceres,
Wilt thou not save thy friend, the noble Maro?

Or.
We will, sweet maid, if it be possible.
We'll keep his faith a secret in our breasts;
And he may yet, if not by circumstances
Provoked to speak, conceal it from the world.

Portia.
And you, my father?

Sul.
I will not betray him.

Portia.
Then all may yet be well; for our great gods,
Whom Cæsar and his subject-nations worship,
Will not abandon Rome's best, bravest soldier
To power demoniac. That can never be,
If they indeed regard us.

Or.
Were he in Parthia, our great god, the sun,
Or rather he who in that star resides,
Would not permit his power to be so thwarted
For all the demonry that e'er exerted
Its baleful influence on wretched men.
Beshrew me! for a thought gleams through my brain
It is this God, perhaps, with some new name,
Which these bewilder'd Nazarenes adore.

Sul.
With impious rites, most strange and horrible.

Or.
If he, my friend, in impious rites hath join'd,
Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man
A power to change its nature. Ay, Sulpicius;
And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass,
Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance;
We shoot our arrow in the dark, and cry,
“It is to wound a foe.” Come, gentle Portia;
Be not so sad; the man thou lovest is virtuous,
And brave, and loves thee well; why then despair?

Portia.
Alas! I know that he is brave and virtuous,
Therefore, I do despair.

Or.
In Nero's court,
Such men are ever on the brink of danger,
But wouldst thou have him other than he is?

Portia.
O no! I would not; that were base and sordid;
Yet shed I tears, even like a wayward child
Who weeps for that which cannot be attain'd,—
Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd.
I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched,
And that hath made me foolish and perverse.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Before the gate of Nero's palace: guards, with their officers, discovered on duty.
Enter to them another officer, speaking, as he enters, to the soldiers.
1st offi.
Strike up some sacred strain of Roman triumph;
The Pontiff comes to meet the summon'd council.
Omit not this respect, else he will deem
We are of those who love the Nazarenes.
Sing loud and clearly.

Enter Pontiff, attended.
SACRED HYMN by the soldiers.
Pontiff.
I thank you, soldiers! Rome, indeed, hath triumph'd,
Bless'd in the high protection of her gods,
The sov'reign warrior-nation of the world;
And, favour'd by great Jove and mighty Mars,
So may she triumph still, nor meanly stoop
To worship strange and meaner deities,
Adverse to warlike glory.

[Exit, with his train.
1st offi.
The Pontiff seems disturb'd, his brow is lowering.

2d offi.
Reproof and caution, mingled with his thanks,
Though utter'd graciously.

1st offi.
He is offended,
Because of late so many valiant soldiers
Have proselytes become to this new worship;
A worship too, as he insinuates,
Unsuited to the brave.

3d offi.
Ay, ay! the sacred chickens are in danger.

2d offi.
Sylvius is suspected, as I hear.

1st offi.
Hush! let us to our duty; it is time
To change the inner guard.

[Exeunt, with music, into the gate of the palace.

SCENE II.

A council-chamber in the palace: Nero with his councillors discovered; Nero in the act of speaking.
Nero.
Yes, Servius; formerly we have admitted,
As minor powers, amongst the ancient gods
Of high imperial Rome, the foreign deities
Of friendly nations; but these Nazarenes
Scorn such association, proudly claiming
For that which is the object of their faith,
Sole, undivided homage: and our altars,
Our stately temples, the majestic forms
Of Mars, Apollo, thund'ring Jove himself,
By sculptor's art divine so nobly wrought,
Are held by these mad zealots in contempt.
Examine, sayst thou! shall imperial Cæsar
Deign to examine what withstands his power?
I marvel at thy folly, Servius Sillus.

Enter an Officer.
Offi.
The Pontiff, mighty Cæsar, waits without
And craves admittance.

Nero.
Let him be admitted. Enter Pontiff.

Pontiff, thy visage, if I read it well,
Says that some weighty matter brings thee here:
Thou hast our leave to speak.

Pontiff.
Imperial Nero, didst thou not condemn,
That eloquent, but pestilential Nazarene,
The Grecian Ethocles, whose specious words
Wrap in delusion all who listen to him,
Spreading his baleful errors o'er the world?

Nero.
Did I condemn him! E'en this very day,
He in the Amphitheatre meets his doom;
Having, I trust, no power of words to charm
The enchafed lion, or the famish'd wolf.

Pontiff.
I am inform'd, and I believe it true,
That this bold malefactor is enlarged.

Nero.
It is impossible! Cordenius Maro
Is sworn to guard the prisoner; or, failing,
(How could he fail?)
to pay with his own life
The forfeit. But behold his fav'rite friend,
The Parthian prince, who will inform us truly. Enter Orceres, followed by Sulpicius.

Orceres, is thy friend Cordenius coming?
I have commanded him, and at this hour,
To bring his guarded prisoner to the palace,
Here to remain till the appointed time.

Or.
I know not; nor have I beheld Cordenius
Since yesterday; when, at an early hour,
Sulpicius and myself met him by chance:
But for the prisoner, he is at hand,
E'en at the palace gate; for as we enter'd
We saw him there, well circled round with guards,
Though in the martial throng we saw not Maro.

Nero
(to the pontiff).
Said I not so?
(To an officer.)
Command them instantly
To bring this wordy Grecian to our presence.
[Exit officer.
Sulpicius, thou hast known this Ethocles;
Is he a madman or ambitious knave,
Who sought on human folly to erect
A kind of fancied greatness for himself?

Sul.
I know not which, great Nero.

Nero.
And didst thou not advise me earnestly
To rid the state of such a pestilence?

Sul.
And so I still advise thee; for this Greek
Is dang'rous above all, who with their lives,
Have yet paid forfeit for their strange belief.
They come: the prisoner in foreign garb
So closely wrapp'd, I scarcely see his face.

Enter prisoner, attended.
Pontiff.
If it in truth be he.

Nero
(to the pontiff).
Dost thou still doubt?
(To the prisoner.)
Stand forth, audacious rebel to my will!
Dost thou still brave it, false and subtle spirit?

Cor.
(throwing off his Grecian cloak, and advancing to Nero).
I am not false, Augustus; but if subtle,
Add to my punishment what shall be deem'd
Meet retribution. I have truly sworn,
Or to produce thy thrall, or, therein failing,
To give my life for his; and here I stand.
Ethocles, by a higher power than thine,
Is yet reserved for great and blessed ends.
Take thou the forfeit; I have kept my oath.

Nero.
I am amazed beyond the power of utt'rance!
Grows it to such a pitch that Rome's brave captains
Are by this wizard sorcery so charm'd?
Then it is time, good sooth! that sweeping vengeance
Should rid the earth of every tainted thing
Which that curst sect hath touch'd. Cordenius Maro,
Thou who hast fought our battles, graced our state,
And borne a noble Roman's honour'd name,
What, O what power could tempt thee to this shame?

Cor.
I have been tempted by that mighty Power
Who gave to Rome her greatness, to the earth
Form and existence; yea, and to the soul
Of living, active man, sense and perception:
But not to shame, O Cæsar! not to shame!

Nero.
What, hast thou not become a Nazarene,
As now I apprehended? Say, thou hast not;
And though thy present act is most audacious,
Yet will I spare thy life.

Cor.
If thou wouldst spare my life, and to that grace
Add all the wealth of Rome, and all the power
Of Rome's great lord, I would not for the bribe
Be other than I am, or what I am
Basely deny.

Nero.
Thou art a Christian, then? Thou art a maniac!

Cor.
I am a man, who, seeing in the flames
Those dauntless Christians suffer, long'd to know
What power could make them brave the fear of death,
Disgrace, and infamy. And I have learnt
That they adore a God,—one God, supreme,
Who, over all men, His created sons,
Rules as a father; and beholding sin,
Growth of corruption, mar this earthly race,
Sent down to earth His sinless heavenly son,
Who left, with generous devoted love,
His state of exaltation and of glory,
To win them back to virtue, yea, to virtue
Which shall be crown'd with never-ending bliss.
I've learnt that they with deep adoring gratitude
Pay homage to that Son, the sent of God,
Who here became a willing sacrifice
To save mankind from sin and punishment,
And earn for them a better life hereafter,
When mortal life is closed. The heart's deep homage
Becometh well such creatures, so redeem'd.

Nero.
Out on that dreaming madness!

Cor.
Is it madness
To be the humble follower of Him,
Who left the bliss of heaven to be for us
A man on earth, in spotless virtue living,
As man ne'er lived: such words of comfort speaking,
To rouse, and elevate, and cheer the heart,
As man ne'er spoke; and suff'ring poverty,
Contempt, and wrong, and pain, and death itself,
As man ne'er suffer'd? O, if this be madness,
Which makes each generous impulse of my nature
Warm into ecstasy, each towering hope
Rise to the noblest height of bold conception;
That which is reason call'd, and yet has taught you
To worship different gods in every clime,
As dull and wicked as their worshippers,
Compared to it, is poor, confined, and mean,
As is the Scythian's curtain'd tent, compared
With the wide range of fair, expanded nature.

Nero.
Away, away, with all those lofty words!
They but bewilder thee.

Cor.
Yet hear them, Nero! O resist them not!
Perhaps they are appointed for thy good,
And for the good of thousands. When these hands
Which have so oft done Rome a soldier's service,
This tongue which speaks to thee, are turn'd to ashes,
What now appears so wild and fanciful,
May be remember'd with far other feelings.
It is not life that I request of Nero,
Although I said these hands have fought for Rome.
No; in the presence of these senators,
First bind thyself by every sacred oath
To give this body to the flames, then hear me;
O could I speak what might convince Rome's chief,
Her senators, her tribes, her meanest slaves,
Of Christ's most blessed truth, the fatal pile
Would be to me a car of joyful triumph,
Mounted more gladly than the laurell'd hero
Vaults to his envied seat, while Rome's throng'd streets
Resound his shouted name. Within me stirs
The spirit of truth and power which spoke to me,
And will upon thy mind—

Nero.
I charge thee cease!

Or.
Nay, Emperor! might I entreat for him?

Cor.
(catching hold of Orceres eagerly).
Not for my life.

Or.
No; not for that, brave Maro!
(To Nero.)
Let me entreat that he may freely speak.
Fearst thou he should convince thee by his words?
That were a foul affront to thine own reason,
Or to the high divinities of Rome.

Nero.
Cease, Prince of Parthia! nor too far presume
Upon a noble stranger's privilege.

Pontiff.
Shall words so bold be to thine car august
So freely utter'd with impunity?

Or.
Pontiff; I much revere thy sacred office,
But scorn thy paltry words. Not freely speak!
Not with impunity! Is this a threat?
Let Rome's great master, or his angry slaves,
Shed one drop of my blood, and on our plains,
Where heretofore full many a Roman corse,
With Parthian arrows pierced, have vultures fed,
Twice thirty thousand archers in array,
Each with his bow strain'd for the distant mark,
Shall quickly stand, impatient for revenge.
Not with impunity!

Sul.
Nay, nay, Orceres! with such haughty words
Thou'lt injure him thou pleadst for. Noble Cæsar!
Permit an aged man, a faithful servant,
To speak his thoughts. This brave deluded youth
Is now, as I sincerely do believe,
Beneath the power of strong and dire enchantment.
Hear not his raving words, but spare his life;
And when its power (for all delusion holds
Its power but for a season) shall be spent,
He will himself entreat your clemency,
And be again the soldier of the state,
Brave and obedient. Do not hear him now:
Command him to retire.

Cor.
I thank thee, good Sulpicius, but my life,
For which thou pleadst, take no account of that;
I yield it freely up to any death,
Cruel or merciful, which the decree
Of Cæsar shall inflict, for leave to speak
E'en but a few short moments. Princely Nero!
The strong enchantment which deludes my soul
Is, that I do believe myself the creature,
Subject, and soldier, if I so may speak,
Of an Almighty Father, King, and Lord,
Before whose presence, when my soul shall be
Of flesh and blood disrobed, I shall appear,
There to remain with all the great and good
That e'er have lived on earth, yea, and with spirits,
Higher than earth e'er own'd, in such pure bliss
As human heart conceives not,—if my life,
With its imperfect virtue, find acceptance
From pard'ning love and merey; but, if otherwise,
That I shall pass into a state of misery
With souls of wicked men and wrathful demons:
That I believe this earth on which we stand
Is but the vestibule to glorious mansions,
Through which a moving crowd for ever press;
And do regard the greatest Prince, who now
Inflicts short torment on this flesh, as one
Who but in passing rudely rends my robe.
And thinkest thou that I, believing this,
Will shrink to do His will whom I adore?
Or thinkest thou this is a senseless charm,
That soon will pass away?

Nero.
High words, indeed, if resting on good proof!
A maniac's fancies may be grand and noble.

Cor.
Ay, now thou list'nest, as a man should listen,
With an inquiring mind. Let me produce
The proofs which have constrain'd me to believe,
From written lore and well-attested facts;—
Let me produce my proofs, and it may be
The Spirit of Truth may touch thy yielding heart,
And save thee from destruction.

Nero.
Ha! dost thou think to make of me a convert?
Away, weak fool! and most audacious rebel!
Give proofs of thy obedience, not thy faith,
If thou wouldst earn thy pardon.

Cor.
If thou condemn me in the flames to die,
I will and must obey thee; if to live,
Disgraced by pardon won through treachery
To God, my King supreme, and His bless'd Christ,
I am, indeed, thy disobedient rebel.

Nero.
And shall as such most dearly pay the forfeit.
Out!—take him from my presence till the time
Of public execution!
Cordenius Maro, thou shalt fall this day
By no ignoble foe;—a noble lion
Famish'd and fierce shall be thy adversary.
And dost thou smile and raise thy head at this,
In stately confidence?

Cor.
God will deliver me from every adversary.
And thou too smilest.—Yes; he will deliver
That which I call myself. For this poor form
Which vests me round, I give it to destruction,
As gladly as the storm-beat traveller,
Who, having reach'd his destined place of shelter,
Drops at the door his mantle's cumbrous weight.

Nero
(going).
Then to thy visionary hopes I leave thee,
Incorrigible man! Here, in this chamber
Keep him secure till the appointed hour.
[To the officers, &c.
Off, good Sulpicius! hang not on me thus!

Sul.
O mighty Cæsar! countermand your orders:
Delay it but a month, a week, a day.

[Exeunt Nero, Sulpicius, senators, &c., Sulpicius still keeping close to Nero in the act of supplication.—Orceres, Cordenius, and guards remain, the guards standing respectfully at a distance in the background.
Or.
Noble Cordenius! can thy martial spirit
Thus brook to be a public spectacle,
Fighting with savage beasts, the sport of fools,
Till thou shalt fall, deform'd and horrible,
Mangled and piecemeal torn? It must not be.

Cor.
Be not so moved, Orceres; I can bear it:
The God I worship, who hath made me humble,
Hath made me dauntless too. And for the shame
Which, as I guess, disturbs thee most, my Master,
The Lord and Leader I have sworn to follow,
Did as a malefactor end his days,
To save a lost, perverted race: shall I
Feel degradation, then, in following Him?

Or.
In this, alas! thou'lt follow Him too surely;
But whither, noble Maro?

Cor.
E'en to my destined home, my Father's

[house.
Or.
And where is that? O, canst thou tell me where?
Beyond the ocean, or beneath the earth?
Be there more worlds than this, beyond our ken
In regions vast, above the lofty stars?
Could we through the far stretch of space descry
E'en but the distant verge, though dimly mark'd,
Of any other world, I would believe
That virtuous men deceased have in good truth
A destined place of rest.

Cor.
Believe it—O, believe it, brave Orceres!

Or.
I'll try to do it. I'll become a Christian,
Were it but only to defy this tyrant.

Cor.
Thou must receive with a far different spirit
The faith of Jesus Christ. Perhaps thou wilt.
My heart leaps at the thought. When I am dead,
Remain in Rome no longer. In the East
Search thou for Ethocles, whom I have rescued;
And if he shall convert thee, O how richly
He will repay all I have done for him!—
But I would now withdraw a little space,
To pour my thoughts in prayer and thankfulness
To Him, the great, the good, the wise, the just,
Who holds man's spirit in His own high keeping,
And now supports my soul, and will support it,
Till my appointed task is done. In secret
The hearts by Jesus taught were bid to pray,
And, if it be permitted, so will I.
(To the guards, who advance as he speaks to them.)
My guards, and, some time past, my fellow soldiers,
Let me remain alone a little while,
And fear not my escape. If ye distrust me,
Watch well the door, and bind my hands with chains!

1st offi.
Yes, brave Cordenius, to another chamber
Thou mayst retire, and we will watch without.
But be thy person free: we will not bind,
With felon cord or chain, those valiant hands,
Which have so often for thy country fought,
Until we are commanded.

Cor.
I thank you all, my friends, and I believe
That I shall meet and thank you too hereafter;
For there is something in you God must love.
(To 1st officer.)
And, loving, will not give to reprobation.
Codrus, thou once didst put thy life in hazard,
And suffer much to save a helpless Greek
Who sought protection of thee.
(Turning to the 2d officer.)
Ay, and thou,
Young Lelius, once a rich and tempting ransom
Didst freely to a captive wretch remit.
Ye are of those whom Jesus came to save:
Yes; we shall meet hereafter.
(To 3d officer.)
And thou, my former enemy, weep'st thou?
We're enemies no more; thou art my brother.
I will retire; my little term of life
Runs fleetly on; I must not spend it thus.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A crowded amphitheatre: Nero and the senators discovered in the background sitting in state; Portia, by the side of Nero, in the act of supplication.
Enter Sulpicius on the front, meeting with another noble Roman.
Sul.
(eagerly).
Is he advancing?

Noble Roman.
Yes, and close at hand,
Surrounded by a group of martial friends.
Oft have I seen him on a day of battle
March to the charge with noble portly gait;
But now he treads the ground with buoyant steps
Which from its surface spring, as though he press'd
Substance of renovating power. His form
Seems stately and enlarged beyond its wont;
And in his countenance, oft turn'd to heaven,
There is a look as if some god dwelt in him.

Sul.
How do the people greet him?

Noble Roman.
Every face
Gazing upon him, turns, with transit quick,
Pity to admiration. Warlike veterans
Are shedding tears like infants. As he pass'd
The legion he commanded in Armenia,
They raised a shout as if a victor came,
Saluting him with long and loud applause,
None daring to reprove them.
[Noise without of shouting.
Hark! he comes.

Enter Cordenius, followed by Orceres and Sylvius, and attended by other friends, with guards, &c.
Sul.
(advancing eagerly to meet him).
Cordenius, Cordenius, hear a friend,
A faithful ancient friend; thy Portia's father!
At Nero's footstool she is pleading for thee,
And will not plead in vain, if thou wilt testify
A yielding mind, a willingness to live.

Cor.
I am so pleased to die, and am so honour'd
In dying for the pure and holy truth,
That nature's instinct seems in me extinguish'd.
But if the Emperor freely pardon me,
I shall believe it is the will of God
That I should yet on earth promote His service,
And, so believing, am content to live;
Living or dying, to His will resign'd.

Enter Portia on the front, and catching hold of Cordenius with eagerness and great agitation.
Portia.
Cordenius, thou art pardon'd! Nero spares thee,
If thou wilt only say thou art a Roman,
In heart and faith, as all thy fathers were,
Or but forbear to say thou art a Christian.

Cor.
Thanks, gentle Portia! life preserved by thee,
E'en to be spent in want and contumely,
Rather than grieve thy kind and tender heart,
My dearest, gentlest friend! I had accepted:
But to deny my God, and put dishonour
Upon the noblest, most exalted faith
That ever was to human thoughts reveal'd,
Is what I will not—yea, and though a Roman,
A noble Roman, and a soldier too,
I dare not do. Let Nero have this answer.

Portia.
No, not this answer, Maro; not this answer!
Cast not life from thee, dear, most dear Cordenius!
Life, too, which I should spend my life in cheering,
Cast it not from thee like a worthless thing.

Cor.
Because it is not worthless but most precious,
And now, when dear to thee, more precious far
Than I have e'er esteem'd it, 'tis an offering
More meet for God's acceptance;
Withheld from Him, not even thyself, sweet maid,
Couldst cheer its course, nor yet couldst thou be happy.

Portia.
Nay, but I could!—to see thee still alive,
And by my side, mine own redeemed friend,
Should I not then be happy?

Cor.
I should be by thy side, dear love! but thou,
With all thy excellence, couldst have no happiness,
Mated with one, whose living form alone
Could move upon the earth, while far adrift
His mind would dwell by ceaseless meditation,
In other worlds of blessedness or woe;
Lost to the one, and to the other link'd
By horrid sympathy, till his wrench'd nature
Should to a demon's fell and restless spirit
At last be changed.

Portia.
Alas, alas! and dost thou then believe
That nought remains for thee but death or misery?

Cor.
No, gentle Portia! firmly I believe
That I shall live in endless happiness,
And with the blest hereafter shall behold
Thy blessed self with ecstasy of love,
Exceeding every thought of earth-born passion,
As the fair morning star in lovely brightness
Excels a night-fly, twinkling through the gloom.
Live in this hope, dear Portia! hold it fast;
And may His blessing rest upon thy head,
Who loves the loving and the innocent!
Farewell, in love and hope! farewell, in peace!
Farewell, in quick'ning faith,—in holy joy!

Portia
(clasping his knees).
Nay, let me yet conjure thee!
Make me not wretched, I who once was happy,
And happiest of all in loving thee.

Cor.
This is my anguish and my suffering!
O, good Sulpicius, bear her to her home.

Sul.
(leading her gently away, while she still clings to him).
Forbear, my child, thy tears are all in vain.

Enter a Lictor.
Lictor.
Cæsar forbids all further interruption
To his imperial sentence. Let Cordenius
Forthwith prepare him for the fatal fight.
This is mine office, and I must perform it.
[Begins to disrobe Cordenius, while Portia shrieks aloud, and is carried off in the arms of her father.
Disrobe thee, Maro, of those martial weeds.

Cor.
Gladly! for Him I serve;—my glorious Master
Hath braced me with an armour that defies
All hostile things; in which I'll strive more proudly
Than I have ever fought in field or breach
With Rome's or Nero's foes.

Lictor.
Cæsar desires thee also to remember,
That no ignoble audience, e'en thy Emperor,
And all the states of Rome, behold thy deeds.

Cor.
Tell him my deeds shall witness'd be by those
Compared to whom the Emperor of Rome,
With all her high estates, are but as insects
Hov'ring at mid-day o'er some tainted marsh.
I know full well that no ignoble audience
Are present, though from mortal eyes conceal'd.
Farewell, my friends! kind, noble friends, farewell!
[Apart to Sylvius, while Orceres goes off, re-appearing in another part of the theatre.
Sylvius, farewell! If thou shouldst e'er be call'd
To die a holy martyr for the truth,
God give thee then the joy which now I feel.
But keep thy faith conceal'd, till useful service
Shall call thee to maintain it. God be with thee!
(Looking round.)
Where is Orceres gone? I thought him near me.

Sylvius.
'Tis but a moment since he left thy side
With eager haste.

Cor.
He would not see my death. I'm glad he's gone.
Say I inquired for him, and say I bless'd him.
—Now I am ready. Earthly friends are gone.
Angels and blessed spirits! to your fellowship
A few short pangs will bring me.
—O, Thou, who didst upon the cross for us
A willing suff'rer die, receive my soul!
Almighty God and Sire, supreme o'er all,
Pardon my sins and take me to Thyself!
Accept the last words of my earthly lips:
High hallelujah to Thy holy name!

[A lion now appears, issuing from a low door at the end of the stage, and Cordenius, advancing to meet it, enters the arena, when Orceres from a lofty stand amongst the spectators, sends an arrow from his bow, which pierces Cordenius through the heart. He then disappears, and re-entering below, catches hold of his hand as Sylvius supports him from falling to the ground.
Or.
(to Cordenius).
Have I done well, my friend?—this is a death
More worthy of a Roman.
I made a vow in secret to my heart,
That thou shouldst ne'er be made a mangled sight
For gazing crowds and Nero's ruthless eye.

Sylvius.
That dying look, which almost smiles upon thee,
Tells thee thou hast done well; though words no more
May pass from these clos'd lips, whose last, bless'd utterance
Was the soul's purest and sublimest impulse.

[The curtain drops.

THE SEPARATION:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Garcio, an Italian count.
• Rovani, his friend.
• Gonzalos, an old officer.
• The Marquis of Tortona.
• Ludovico, seneschal of the castle.
• Gauvino, chamberlain.
• Pietro, servant.
• Gomez, servant.
• Hermit, &c. &c.

WOMEN

• Margaret, wife to Garcio.
• Sophera, her attendant and friend.
• Nurse, &c.

Scene, a small state in Italy.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A chamber, with a great screen at the bottom of the stage, behind which part of a bed is seen, and voices heard as the curtain draws up, while Pietro and Gomez are discovered on the front, looking from a half-opened door, as if listening.
Gomez.
What said he last? the word died on his tongue.

Pie.
So much the better.

Gomez.
Makes he confession? Hast thou listen'd long?
He ever wore, e'en in his days of health,
The scowling eye of an unquiet mind,
And some black deed disturbs his end. E'en so;
Thy face confirms it.

Pie.
We shall be discover'd.

[Exeunt, shutting the door softly, while Ludovico and Gauvino come forward from behind the screen.
Gau.
(looking earnestly at Ludovico, before he speaks).
What thinkst thou of it?

Lud.
It is very strange.

Gau.
'Tis but the fever'd ravings of disease:
Hast thou more serious thoughts?

Lud.
I would our good confessor were arrived,
Whate'er my thoughts may be.

Gau.
Ay; then I can divine them. To my judgment,
He speaks like one more forced to utterance
By agony of mind than the brain's sickness.
The circumstances of the horrid deed;
The wondrous fleetness of his gallant steed
Which bore Count Garcio through the forest paths—

Lud.
Cease, cease! I would the father were arrived.

Gau.
It was his fav'rite steed, and yet he ne'er
Made mention of its name or of its end,
But, when we praised its fleetness, frown'd in silence.
I've wonder'd oft at this, but thought no ill.

Lud.
Nor think it now. It is not credible,—
Making, as then he did, a lover's suit
To the fair Margaret, Ulrico's sister,—
That he should murder him.

Gau.
He was the heir of all Ulrico's lands.

Lud.
True; so he was.

Gau.
Ulrico loved him not, and oft opposed
His suit as most presumptuous. But for this,
Her brother's sudden end, the lovely maid
Had ne'er been Garcio's wife.

Lud.
All this is true; and yet, perhaps, those facts
Have on the mind of this poor dying wretch
Impress'd dark fancies, which the fever'd brain
Shapes into actual deed. Oh, it is horrible!
Canst thou believe one of his noble race
Could do a deed befitting ruffian hands,
And only such? Had he thus wickedly
Devised Ulrico's death, some hired assassin
Had done the bloody work, not his own hands.

Gau.
Well, but what thinkst thou of his strange aversion
To this, the goodliest seat our country boasts?
Although his countess oft hath urged him to it,
He hath not since his marriage here resided,—
Nay, hath not pass'd a night within these walls:
And, but that he is absent at the wars,
E'en though the recent earthquake has in ruins
His other castle laid, and forced us thence,
This mansion had remain'd untenanted.

Lud.
I would the ghostly father were arrived!
(Voice heard behind the screen.)
Blood will accuse:
—am I not cursed for this?

Lud.
He speaks again: I thought that for the while
He had been sunk into a state of stupor.
Go thou and watch by him, Gauvino; haste!
For steps approach, and none must be admitted.
[Gauvino retires behind the screen; and Ludovico, running to the door, meets Sophera, and endeavours to prevent her entering.
Thou mayst not come: he's still; he is asleep:
Thou canst not see him.

[Voice heard again.
Soph.
Asleep, sayst thou? do I not hear his voice?
Nay, let me pass; I will not be withheld.
My lady follows me with some good drug
To chafe his brow, poor wretch! and give him comfort.

Lud.
Return, and tell the countess to forbear:
She must not see him; foul unwholesome air
Has made the chambers noxious. Hie thee back,
And say she must not come.

Soph.
And dost thou think this will prevent her? Never,
E'en from the sick-bed of her meanest servant,
Hath she stood fearfully aloof, when comfort
Could be administer'd.
I've seen the pain-rack'd wretch smile in his pain
To see his lady's sweetly pitying face
Peep past his ragged curtain, like a gleam
Of kindly sunshine, bidding him good morrow.
And thinkst thou now, from this poor dying man,
The oldest faithful follower of her lord,
To keep her back with such a plea as this?

Lud.
Cease! urge no more. Return; she must not come:
The sick man is distorted-grown, and changed,
Fearful to look upon: a lady's gentleness
May not such sight abide.

Soph.
A poor excuse!
Hast thou forgotten when those wounded soldiers
Lay near our walls, after a bloody skirmish
Left on the field from which their comrades fled,
How she did stand with steady master'd pity,
'Midst horrid sights from which her women fled
With looks averted, till each bleeding wretch
Was bound and comforted? Distorted, sayst thou!
Who goes to chambers of discase and death
To look on pleasant sights?
(Voice again.)
I did not murder him.

Soph.
He spoke of murder!

[Ludovico pressing her back as she advances eagerly towards the screen, whilst Gauvino comes forward to assist him.
Lud.
Thou shalt as soon pass through my body, fool!
Such cursed obstinacy! art thou mad?
If thou regardst thy lady's peace of mind,
Fly, I conjure thee, and prevent her coming.

Enter Countess behind them.
Countess.
And why, good Ludovico?

Lud.
(who starts on seeing her).
Gracious heaven!

Countess.
Why lookst thou so aghast! Is Baldwin dead?

Lud.
He is; and therefore go not.

[She still endeavours to pass. No, no! he is not; be entreated, madam!
Countess.
What cause so strangely moves thee?

Lud.
A powerful cause, that must not be reveal'd.
O, be entreated then!
(Voice again.)
Ulrico's blood was shed by Garcio's hand,
Yet I must share the curse.

Lud.
Run to him quickly! wherefore didst thou leave him?

[Gauvino again retires as before.
Countess.
What words were those he utter'd?

Lud.
Words of despair and frenzy; heed them not,
But quit the chamber. O, for heaven's sake, go!

[Exeunt; Ludovico hurrying off the Countess and Sophera.

SCENE II.

A small ante-room or passage.
Enter Pietro and Gomez by opposite sides.
Gomez.
Is the confessor with poor Baldwin still?

Pie.
He is; but, as I guess, will leave him presently;
I heard, just now, the chamber-door unlock'd.
I'll keep my station here, and see him pass.

Gomez.
And so will I. Ha! yonder, see, he
comes.

Pietro.
His head bends to the ground, and o'er his eyes
His hood is drawn: would I could see his face!
He is the cousin of our seneschal,—
I'll speak to him. Enter a Friar, walking hastily across the stage.

Good father! give your blessing:
How is your penitent?

[Friar waves him off with his hand, and exil.
Gomez.
He motions with his hand and will not speak.

Pie.
In so much haste to go! this is not well.
[Shaking his head.
No, no! it hath a dark and rueful look.
Well; God be praised! these hands are free from blood.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The apartment of the Countess; she is discovered pacing to and fro with slow, thoughtful steps, then stops short, and stands in a musing posture some time before she speaks aloud.
Countess.
'Tis often thus; so are we framed by nature.
How oft the fitful wind or sullen bell
Will utter to the ear distinctive words,
According with the fancy's wild conceptions!
So are the brains of sick and frenzied men
Stored with unreal and strange imaginations.
(After a short pause.)
Am I become a maniac?
Oh! have words,
To which the firm conviction of my mind
So strongly stands opposed, the baleful power
To fix this misery on me? This is madness! Enter Sophera behind.

Is't thou, Sophera?

Soph.
Yes, 'tis only I.

Countess.
Is every decent office of respect
Done to the corse?

Soph.
Yes, nought has been omitted.

Countess.
'Tis well; but what detains the good confessor?
I wish'd to see him.

Soph.
He stay'd but till his wretched penitent
Had breathed his last, and quickly left the castle.

Countess.
He is in haste, methinks; 'tis somewhat strange.
Why lookst thou on me with that fearful eye?
Thinkst thou the ravings of a frenzied mind
Have power to move me?

Soph.
I only thought—I fear'd—you wisely judge;
Why should they move you? Well, the dismal story
Of that most dismal murder, here committed
By hands unknown, might to a sickly brain
Such thoughts create of nothing.

Countess.
What sayst thou? here committed!

Soph.
Did not your hapless brother in this castle
Come to his end?

Countess.
Yes, but a natural end.

Soph.
So grant it were! it is not so reported.

Countess.
Ha! what is else reported?

Soph.
The peasants round all idle stories credit;
And say that in his castle, by his servants,
He was discover'd in the eastern tower
Murder'd. But, doubtless, 'tis a tale of falschood,
Since 'tis to thee unknown.

Countess
(sinking back into a chair).
It was to me unknown.
(After a long pause.)
Dear, dear! the friend, the brother of my heart,
The playmate of my early, happy days,
Could such a fate be thine!
It makes me weep to think it possible,
Yet I believe it not.

Soph.
You tremble much.

Countess.
I'm cold and chill: 'tis weariness of body;
Do not regard it; I shall soon be better.
[Trumpet sounds without.
A trumpet! then some martial guest approaches.
O most unwelcome!

Soph.
'Tis Tortona's Marquis.

Countess.
He is not in these parts; it cannot be.

Soph.
He is upon his march with some gay troops
To join the army, and hath made a halt
Here in our nearest town to rest his men.
So said his servant, whom I found this morning
Lurking within the castle; and I guess
His warlike lord is come.

Countess.
I cannot see him.
Go thou; plead my excuse: I am unwell;
Say what thou wilt, but let me be excused. Enter Rovani.

Rovani here!—O, how is this? My lord?

Rov.
He is not far behind. I am, fair lady,
The vanguard of his band; and, as I trust,
Bearing no dismal tidings.

Countess.
O no! they should, indeed, be joyful, if—
And, as in truth I trust—my lord is well!

Rov.
Yes; from the wars, unhurt and strong in health,
Garcio returns! where he has done the service
Of an undaunted powerful combatant,
To that of a right skilful leader join'd.
He is not one of your reserved chiefs,
Who, pointing with their dainty fingers, thus,
Say, “Go, my friends, attack yon frowning ranks.”
No, by my faith! with heavy scimitar
He closes to the bloody work himself,
And to the carnage of each grizly field
Brings his full tale of death.

Countess
(shrinking back).
Is he so ruthless, then?

Rov.
Ay, in the field.
But in your hall or bower, where ladies smile,
Who is more gentle? Thus it often is:
A lady feels not on her soldier's hand,
That softly presses her more gentle palm,
The deaths which it has dealt.

Soph.
I'm sure, were but thy rapier like thy tongue,
The count must have in thee an able second.

Rov.
I may not boast; but doth my circled finger
More rudely press thy snowy arm, fair maid,
Because this graven jewel was the gift
Of a great Moorish princess, whose rude foe
I slew before her eyes?

Soph.
Some angry puppy that with snarling mouth
Snapp'd at her robe or sandal'd heels, belike.

Rov.
Nay, by my faith! a foe in worth mine equal.

Soph.
That I will grant thee readily. But say,
How far behind thee is the noble count?

Countess.
Ay, is he near?

Rov.
Within a few short miles.
The war has ended sooner than we guess'd,
And we have made good speed.

Countess.
So near!

Rov.
How is it? This affects you strangely.

Countess.
Such unexpected news! I should be glad,
But gladness comes with pain. I will retire,
And for a moment strive to calm this tremor.
To Sophera.)
Follow me not.

[Exit.
Rov.
(looking after her as she goes off).
I have, ere now, beheld the sudden news
Of a good lord's return from foreign lands
By wedded dame received; but so received,
Never till now. How's this? What is the matter?
How shall a simple bachelor, as I am,
Have thoughts of this bless'd state, if such as she
Cold and capricious prove?

Soph.
Blame her not hastily; she is depress'd:
Old Baldwin, whom his master left behind,
That faithful servant, died with us this morning.

Rov.
Alas, poor soul! and he is gone at last!
Well, we have brought you thirsty throats enow
To drink his fun'ral wassails. Ay, poor Baldwin!
A hardy knave thou wast in better days.
If I had known of this, heav'n rest his soul!
I had not sounded my approach so cheerly.

Soph.
To tell the truth, that martial sound deceived us.
We took you for Tortona's warlike lord,
Who, to refresh his passing troops, we hear,
Has made a halt:—I thought—

Rov.
Out with thy thought!
Why dost thou hesitate?—I will explain it.
I've brought you disappointment.

Soph.
You mistake me.

Rov.
Nay, pardon me; I linger here too long:
But,—ere I go,—how does the infant heir?
I must tell Garcio I have seen his boy,

Soph.
With pleasure I'll conduct thee. 'Tis an urchin
Provoking smiles of love from every face
That looks upon him, be it e'er so stern.

Rov.
How then will a fond father feel!—How oft—
How oft and fondly hath he talk'd of him!
Though but a little grasp of shapeless life,
With puling whine, just winking to the light,
As I remember well, when Garcio left him.

Soph.
Is Garcio, then, so tender?

Rov.
Dost thou doubt it?
The bear doth love his cub, bear though he be:
But Garcio is a man of strong affections.
Come, pray thee, lead.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A wild alley with a grove behind. Martial music heard without.
Then enter Garcio with his soldiers on march, and Gonzalos.
Gar.
Halt, my brave comrades; here we'll rest awhile
Till sultry noon be past. Those spreading trees
Will give you shade.
To Gonzalos.)
Seest thou Rovani coming?

Gon.
No, good my lord; but through the trees I see
Your castle's turrets brighten'd with the sun.
Look there! it is a fair, enliv'ning sight.

Gar.
turning away, after a hasty look).
I see, I see.—But wherefore stays Rovani!
To soldiers.)
Go, choose, each as he lists, his spot of rest;
I'll keep me here. [Gonzalos and the soldiers retire to the bottom of the stage, but still appear partially through the trees.
After musing some time.)

An infant's life!
What is an infant's life? the chilly blast,
That nips the blossom, o'er the cradle breathes,
And child and dam like blighted sweetness fade.
If this should be! O, dear, uncertain bliss!
Shame on his tardy steps!—Ha! here he comes! Enter Rovani, while Garcio runs up to him eagerly.

They are alive? they're well? And thou hast seen them?

Rov.
Your lady and your son?

Gar.
impatiently).
Ay, ay!

Rov.
They're well.

Gar.
Thank heav'n, they are!—But yet thy words are slow:
Does she not follow thee? Waits she my coming?

Rov.
She surely does expect it.

Gar.
What voice, what looks are these? O speak more freely!
If there be merey in thee, speak more freely!
[Pauses and looks earnestly at him.
Something is wrong—I have nor wife nor child!

Rov.
They are both well: have I not spoken plain words?

Gar.
Plain words! yes, baldly plain; reserved and heartless.
Thou dost not use me like a fellow soldier,
In the same warfare worn.—What hast thou seen?
Thou sayst my lady's well: did she receive,
With a wife's joy, the news of my return?

Rov.
I am not skill'd to say; for dispositions
Of various hues are variously affected.
The news were sudden and unlook'd for: oft
The joy of such is clouded and disturb'd.
She did withdraw in secrecy to hide
Her strong emotions.

Gar.
She was strongly moved?

Rov.
I know not how it was. The servants, too,
Whisper'd together as I pass'd, and look'd
With a strange staring gravity upon me.
Dull clowns! who should have cast their caps in air
For joy of your return. Baldwin is dead;
And if for him they wear those sombre looks,
Good piteous souls they are. A courtly damsel,
Attending on the countess, did, forsooth!
Mistake my trumpet for the glad arrival
Of some gay visitor, who was expected;
Whose buxom train, no doubt, contains some youth
More grateful to her sight than war-worn knight,
Such as my paltry self.

Gar.
What visitor?

Rov.
That very martial lord,
The Marquis of Tortona, save his worth!
For he conducts his soldiers through these parts,
And makes a halt in this fair neighbourhood,
Some days or so, for needful recreation.
[A pause.
What! stay we here to ruminate upon it?
Will that avail?—Come, onward to the castle!
And, be our welcome there or cold or kind,
'Tis what heav'n sends us.

Gar.
Off; disturb me not!
Thy heart is light.

Rov.
No, Garcio; 'tis not light
If thine be heavy. I have told my tale
Too well I see it now—but foolishly:
Yet their cold looks provoked me.—Brood not on it:
There is one face, at least, within your walls
Will smile on you with sweet and guileless smiles:
A noble boy,—might call a monarch father,
Ay, by my faith! and do him honour, too.

Gar.
Does he lisp sounds already?—And so lovely?
I've found tears now, press'd being that I am!
Come then; I'll summon strength: whate'er betide,
Or good or ill, I'll meet it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Countess and Sophera.
Countess.
He is within the gates; here will I stop,
Nor wander further: I'll receive him here.
Listening.)
Heaven give me strength! his well known steps so near me!

Enter Garcio; he runs eagerly to embrace the Countess, who faints.
Gar.
So moved! Can this be joy?
[Sophera chafes her hands and temples, while Garcio gazes on her with keen observation: she recovers.
My gentle love,
Who wast my gentle love, come I upon thee
Like some unlook'd for,—some unwelcome thing?

Countess.
Is it thy voice, my Garcio, in mine cars
Sounding, as it was wont, the voice of love?

Gar.
How should it sound to thee? The wars have spared me:
The bullet and the sabre's stroke have err'd,
To spare this head, where thousands fell around me;
For I believed thy saintly prayers did mar
Their death-commission'd power. Yes; I believed it.

Countess.
And still believe it. Yes, my prayers were raised
Most fervently to heav'n: and I will bless it,
That thou art safe.

[Takes his hand in hers tenderly, and is about to press it to her breast, when a shuddering seizes her, and she lets it drop.
Gar.
What is the matter? Thou art strangely seized.
Does sudden illness chill thee?

Soph.
The countess, good my lord, is much o'ercome.
Her health is weak at present: agitation
Strongly affects her. But she'll soon recover.

Gar.
Thou answ'rest for her readily, young lady,
And wisely too.

Enter Rovani, followed by Nurse, carrying a sleeping infant.
Rov.
Come on, good nurse; thou needst not be ashamed
To show thy bantling, sleeping or awake.
A nobler, comelier, curly-pated urchin
Ne'er changed the face of stern and warlike sire
To tearful tenderness. Look here, my lord.

Gar.
turning eagerly round).
The child! my child!

[Lifting the mantle that covers it, and gazing on the infant.
Rov.
Ay, there are cheeks and lips like roses glowing;
And, see, half-open'd eyelids show within
The dewy azure of his sleeping eyes,
Like loopholes in a cloud. Awake, sweet imp!

Gar.
Nay, wake him not; his sleep is beautiful.
Let me support—Come to my stirring heart,
And here be cradled, thing of wondrous joy!
[Taking the child.
Here, in the inmost core of beating life,
I'd lodge thee. Mine thou art! yes, thou art mine!
Here is my treasured being: thou wilt love me.
[Laying his face close to the child's.
Bless'd softness! little hand and little cheek!
This is a touch so sweet! a blessed touch!
There is love in it; love that will not change!

[Bursting into tears, while the nurse takes the child again.
Countess
(aside, observing his emotion).
O heaven, he weeps!—the tears of strong affection!
Away, base doubts!
[Running to him, and clasping her arms round him.
Garcio, dear Garcio! husband of my heart,
And father of my boy! is there within thee
Such soft and strong affection? O, there is!
And with it every good and generous feeling.
Forgive me, O forgive me!

Gar.
How, my love?
How wakes this sudden burst of tenderness?
Dost thou at last feel for thy wretched husband
The love of other days?—I've thought of thee—
I've thought of this our meeting, but, alas!
Not so my fancy shaped it.

Countess.
O, forgive me!
My mind was weak and brooded on dark thoughts.
We'll cast them from us.—Yes, thy child, thy boy!
Look on him still: they say that in his face
There are some traits of thine. Observe his mouth;
That smile—

Gar.
Nay, that sweet smile I could not give him;
No, nor those lips. He much resembles thee.

Countess.
Thinkest thou so? Then haply thou perceiv'st
Another likeness some have sadly traced;
Dost thou perceive it?

Gar.
No: another likeness?

Countess.
In my sad lonely hours, I have imagined,
And sooth'd me with the pleasing, mournful thought,
He bears some faint resemblance to my brother,
My poor Ulrico.
[Garcio 's countenance becomes stern, and looking again steadfastly on the child, he turns away in silence.
It does not strike thee, then?

Gar.
(motioning the nurse to retire).
We shall disturb his slumbers.

Countess
(to him reproachfully).
Sent off without a kiss of kind endearment?

Gar.
We should disturb him.

[Looking after the child as he is carried off.
Countess.
Thine eye pursues him with a mournful look:
Thou fearst, perhaps, an early fate may snap
His thread of life, like his lamented uncle's.

Gar.
No; past and future are but shadowy visions;
Dark cumbrous things which we must cast aside
To make the present hour endurable.
Who waits without?—A cup of wine, I pray;
I'm tired and faint.

Countess.
Indeed, thou seemst unwell:
I fear thou bringst not back thy wonted health.

Gar.
I'm well,—I was in health, but this damp region,
I breath not in it but with breath suppress'd.
Thou knowst right well I never liked this place:
Why art thou here?

Countess.
It is necessity.

Gar.
I know: I know; but other homes there are;
We'll hence to-morrow.

Countess.
Ha! so soon, my lord?

Gar.
It must be so. I would retire awhile;
Where is my chamber?

Countess.
In the western tower.

Gar.
No; I'll remain—I will not yet retire.
[Pacing to and fro, and then returning to her.
I know not how it is; I'm fanciful;
I like a southern chamber. Countess in a faint voice, gazing fearfully upon him).
E'en as you will.

[Sophera, who has during the greater part of this scene retired to the bottom of the stage with Rovani, now comes forward.
Soph.
Please you, my lord, to go, I will conduct you
Where many fair apartments wait your choice.

Gar.
I thank thee, courteous maid.

[Exit Sophera, followed by Garcio; and the Countess, after a thoughtful pause, is about to break into strong exclamations, when, perceiving Rovani, she checks herself and goes out hastily.
Rov.
coming forward, and looking after her).
All is not well: that step, those looks, those gestures,
So quickly check'd when she perceived me near,
Betray too visibly a mind disturb'd
And far removed from joy. Garcio is come
Unwelcomely upon her. Yet that burst
Of what appear'd like tenderness and love
When he caress'd his child!—I cannot think
She has in act been false; though much I doubt.

Enter Gonzalos behind him.
Gon.
Ha! mutt'ring to thyself! what are thy thoughts?

Rov.
Faith! ill-condition'd, moody, foolish thoughts,
Such as lone men, whose heart no kind mate cheers,
Alone could harbour.—Heaven forgive me for it!
I think our lady here had been well pleased
If this, her valiant lord, had from the wars
Return'd more leisurely.—Her quondam lover,
The Marquis of Tortona, in the neighbourhood
With his gay troops, bound for some petty fray
By them, in lofty phrase, ycleped war,
Has made a halt, and—

Gon.
Fie! thou canst not think
That she could turn her heart from valiant Garcio
To such a fool as he?

Rov.
Yet such strange things have happen'd.—
True, indeed,
So vile a change could not at once be made.
But let us now imagine some soft dame,
Whose valiant lord is absent, in her castle
Spending her dull lone days.
[Changing his voice, and speaking fantastically.
“Ha! who comes here?”—
“Good madam,” saith her waiting gentlewoman,
“A knight is at your gate.”—“He shall not enter:
It is a fool; go, bid him wend his way.”—
“And will you be so rude?”—“Ay, true indeed;
Then, for good courtesy, since it must be,
E'en bid him enter:—'tis a harmless fool.”—
“Good day, fair dame.”—“The same to you, Sir Knight.”—
“Might I presume—but how can words express it,
The sunshine of your beauty dazzles so!—
You will not chide me hence? What gentle goodness!
Dear, precious moments, but so swiftly gone!”—
Then whispers low the waiting gentlewoman,
“Madam, may he return another day?”—
“Well, well, he may, since thou wilt have it so.
It is in truth an amiable fool.”

Gon.
Fy, fy, Rovani! art thou not ashamed?
Who would believe, in hearing thee expatiate
On woman's weakness thus, that thou thyself
Art but a poor dependent on her favour
For all the bloom and sparkle of thy being—
A very daily beggar of her smiles!

Rov.
I, sayst thou? Where, in what nook of the earth,
Lives she for whom I sigh?

Gon.
Nay, rather ask in what nook of the earth
She liveth not. There's ne'er a moving thing,
That wears upon its form a woman's weed,
Be it or short or tall, or pale or buxom,
Or young or old, but thou dost roll thine eye,
And writhe thy body to fantastic shapes
Of affectation, to attract her notice.

Rov.
Nay, spare me, good Gonzalos! I, perhaps,
May, as I speak my jest or merry tale,
With restless eye keep peering to the side
Where beauty listens, too apparently;
But think not this attack on female constancy—
I mean this present individual push—
By any other motive has been prompted,
Than love and true regard for noble Garcio.
After the toils and dangers he has pass'd,
To see him thus received provokes me much.

Gon.
Hush! be more prudent; speak thy mind less freely.
Thy brain is ever full of idle fancies:
Come to the air, and cool thy fev'rish spleen.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Before the gate of the castle.
Enter Ludovico, Gauvino, and some inferior domestics from the gate, while martial music is heard without.
Gau.
(to Ludovico, after looking off the stage).
'Tis as I guess'd; look, Mr. Seneschal!
They bear the ensigns of Tortona. See!
Their chief himself is marching in the van.

Lud.
And, by my fay! a warlike face he wears,
Lofty and grim.

Gau.
Ay; full of awful terrors
For quaking drum-boys and poor piping elves.

Lud.
Comes he to visit thus our valiant lord,
And show his warlike state? Heaven mend his wit!

Enter Tortona, with a few followers, in martial array.
Tor.
Be not alarm'd, good sirs: though thus in arms,
We at your lady's gate are harmless visitors,
Who humbly crave admittance.

[Ludovico, as seneschal, steps forward to receive him with courtesy, while Gauvino mutters to himself.
Gau.
Mighty man!
What bless'd forbearance! For our lady's sake,
He will not slay and eat us for a meal!

Tor.
to Ludovico).
Good Mr. Seneschal, inform thy lady
That I, Tortona's Marquis, and her slave,
Most humbly beg permission at her feet—
But here comes opportunity more tempting:
A gentler messenger.

Enter Sophera.
Gau.
aside to Ludovico).
Great condescending man! superb humility!

Tor.
to Sophera).
Fair lady! most becoming, as I guess,
The beauteous dame you serve; do me the favour
[Speaking in a lower voice, and leading her aside.
To tell the noble mistress of this castle
That one, devoted dearly to her service,
Who breathes the air in which she breathes, as gales
Wafted from Paradise, begs in her presence
With all devotion to present himself.

Soph.
in a loud voice).
The Marquis of Tortona, as I guess.

Tor.
The same; and let not in your peaceful halls
Our warlike mien alarm you. In the field
Whate'er our power may be, forget it here.
Within her precincts, Mars himself would doff
His nodding helm, and bend in meek submission.

Soph.
True, valiant lord; the brave are ever gentle
In hall and bower. But think not warlike guise
Will so alarm us now: there are within
Whose nodding plumes, indeed, less downy are,
Whose well-hack'd armour wears a dimmer hue,
Who have already taught our timid eyes
To look more boldly on such awful things.

Tor.
How, those within? What meanst thou?

Soph.
Ha, my lord!
You come not then to wish the gentle countess
Joy of her lord's return.

Tor.
Is he return'd? It surely cannot be.

Soph.
He is, in truth. This morning he arrived
With many valiant soldiers from the wars,
Where they have seen rough service.

Tor.
That war so quickly ended?

Soph.
Yes, my lord,
And fortunately too. The Moors submit
To the victorious arms of noble Garcio;
Who, ere he left their coast, did for his prince
A happy peace conclude. Will it not please you
To enter, then, and bid him welcome home?

Tor.
I should indeed,—but 'twill intrude upon him.
He and his lady may, perhaps, desire
Some hours of privacy.—Oblige me, then,
And offer my respect—congratulation—
I do but ill express the joy I feel.
I will no longer trespass.
[Hurrying away, and then returning.
'Tis delicacy makes me thus in haste,
As thou wilt comprehend. Should time permit,
Though much I fear to-morrow's sun will light us
To other scenes, I will return and pay
To the most noble count all courtesy.
Fair maiden, fare thee well!
[Hurrying away, and returning again; then drawing her further aside and speaking softly in her ear.
The count, as I am told, dislikes this castle:
His stay, perhaps, may be of short duration?

Soph.
Belike it may.

Tor.
Though quitting this vicinity,
My station for a time will not be distant.
Couldst thou in such a case indite to me
A little note of favour? Taking her hand.)
Pretty hand!
A billet penn'd by thee must needs contain
Words of sweet import.—Fingers light and slender!
Offering to put on a ring.)
Let this be favour'd.

Soph.
Nay, my lord, excuse me.
The pen these fingers use indites no billets
Of such sweet import as you fondly guess:
A housewife's recipe, or homely letter
Of kind inquiry to some absent friend,
Exhausts its power. Unskill'd to earn such gifts,
I may not wear them.—Yonder comes Rovani,
A noble soldier; stay and learn from him
The story of the war. Word-bound he is not:
He'll tell it willingly.

[Rovani, who has appeared at the gate, during the latter part of their discourse, observing them suspiciously, now comes forward.
Tor.
No, no! I am in haste, farewell, farewell!

[Exit with his followers.
Lud.
He goes, I trow, less grandly than he came.

Gau.
Such hasty steps, indeed, somewhat derange
The order of his high nobility.

Lud.
Yet, pompous as he is, I have been told
He is no coward.

Gau.
I suspect him much.

Lud.
But thou art wrong: although he doth assume
Those foolish airs of martial gallantry,
He is as brave as others.

Rov.
who has placed himself directly in front of Sophera, and has been looking for some time significantly in her face).
So, gentle maid, your martial visitor
Retreats right speedily. How fortunate,
To meet so opportunely at the gate
A prudent friend, to tell him what, perhaps,
May save his bones, although it damp his pleasure!
Nay, smile not: I commend thee in good earnest.
Thou art a prudent maid, endow'd with virtues
That suit thy station. This is ample praise.

Soph.
Ample; and spoken too with meaning tones.
What face is this thou wearst of sly significance?
Go to! thou dup'st thyself with too much shrewdness;
And canst not see what plainly lies before thee,
Because thou aimst at seeing more. I'll in,
And bear Tortona's greeting to my lord
And to his countess.

Rov.
Do; and give it all—
The message and its postscript: words of audience,
And those of gentle whisper following after.
Let nothing be forgotten.

Soph.
Nothing shall.
Good day, and heaven curtail thee of thy wits
To make thee wiser!

[Exit into the gate, and followed by Ludovico, &c. &c.
Rov.
alone).
Ay, ay! a very woman! pleased and flatter'd
With the stale flatt'ry of a practised coxcomb,
Though plainly sueing for another's favour.
A very, very woman!—As I guess'd,
Some secret intercourse hath been in train,
Although how far in blameful act advanced
I know not.—Now, 'tis cross'd and interrupted.
So will I e'en believe, and fret no more.
What good have I in living free from wedlock,
If I for husband's honour thus take thought?
Better it were to wear the horns myself,
Knowing it not, than fret for other men.

[Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Garcio and Ludovico, speaking as they enter.
Gar.
Ha! with a priest! conferring with a priest!
Have they been long together?

Lud.
Full an hour.

Gar.
And does she oft such ghostly counsel take?
Has she of late?

Lud.
My lord?

Gar.
O, nothing! nothing!
Stare not as if I meant to question thee:
I had no more to say. [Motioning him away.
[Exit Ludovico.

Alone.)
At such a time retired with her confessor!
What! hath her lord's return caused in her mind
Such sudden need of ghostly counsel?—Strange!
Something hath been amiss: if not in act,
She is, I fear, in will and fancy tainted.

Rovani enters behind him unperceived.
Rov.
Nay, pure or tainted, leave the fancy free.
Of her concerns who may cognizance take?
Although cowl'd priests beneath their jurisdiction
Pretend to hold her, be not thou so strict.

Gar.
Thou knowst, then, that my wife is with her priest.

Rov.
I knew it not.—She is a pious dame:
She seems—she is a very pious dame.

Gar.
Nay, speak thy mind! thou needst not hesitate.
We have been fellow-soldiers nine long years:
Thou ne'er wast wont to weigh thy words with me.
What dost thou think? There is some cause for this.

Rov.
Women are full of strange and fitful humours.

Gar.
Not so; it is not that.—Yet, were she false,
Methinks her shame-flush'd face would turn aside,
Nor look on me so oft and earnestly
As I have seen her gaze.—It cannot be!
In act she is not false.—But if her heart,
Where every kind and dear affection dwelt,—
If it be changed— stamping on the ground)
Some fiend hath been at work,—
Some cursed agent hath been tamp'ring with her.

[Pacing to and fro in violent agitation.
Rov.
Be not so wretched for a doubtful ill,
Which, if it be at all—

Gar.
A doubtful ill!
Oh, if my head but ached, or fev'rish sleep,
Or the more potent secret cause forced from me
One groan or sigh, what tones of kind alarm!
And the soft pressure of her gentle hand
In mute affliction, till I smiled again!
Here, on my bursting heart I feel it still,
Though cold and changed she be.
After a gloomy pause.)
Perhaps some awful and mysterious power
Within these fated precincts doth for me
Love to aversion turn.

Rov.
What dost thou mean by a mysterious power?
And but e'en now methought I heard thee name
A potent secret cause.—Thou hast been wont
Freely to make me sharer of thy thoughts—
Of all thy secret wishes.

Gar.
So I have:
Nought for thy good to hear or mine to utter,
Have I conceal'd from thee.—I hear a noise.

Rov.
No; I hear nothing.

Gar.
But my ear is quick;—
Too quick, perhaps, in fancying sounds that are not.

Rov.
Ay, thou art right: Sophera moved the latch.

Enter Sophera.
Gar.
to Sophera).
Com'st thou to tell me that the priest is gone?

Soph.
The countess did command me to inform you
She is not well, and begs that for the night
She may in solitude recruit her spirits.
She wishes you good night and peaceful sleep.
She bade me say, my lord, her malady
Is of no ardent kind that should alarm you;
But, as she hopes, will pass away ere morn. Aside to Rovani, while Garcio turns away in silence.)
He takes it deeply.

Rov.
aside to her).
No, faith! a soldier is too well inured
To disappointment; knowing not at daybreak
Whether his next night's slumber shall be had
On silken couch, by some fair princess fann'd,
Or on the cold damp earth, with dead men's bones
His wounded head to pillow. No, sweet maid!
We bear such evils lightly.

Soph.
'Tis well ye do; and so, brave sir, good night!

[Exit.
Gar.
returning to Rovani).
What thinkst thou of this message?

Rov.
I know not what to think.

Gar.
Thou dost! thou dost! for in thine eyes I read
A shameful thought, that must remain unutter'd.
Ruin, and shame, and misery come upon me!
Heav'n pours its vengeance on this cursed head!

Rov.
Nay, do not thus give way: be well assured
Ere thou give loose to passion.

Gar.
Assured! and how assured? What can I do?—
Become a calm inquisitor of shame?

Rov.
Restrain thyself, and go to thine apartment,
As if to pass the night. But, some hours later,
When all are gone to rest, steal softly forth
Into thy lady's chamber. There thou'lt see
If she indeed be sick, or if she hold
The vigil of a guilt-distracted mind.

Gar.
I like thy counsel well: I'll to my chamber.
Good night, my friend.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The bedchamber of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat by the side of the bed, with her head and arms thrown upon the bed. She raises her head, and, after a thoughtful pause, starts up eagerly.
Countess.
It cannot be! The roused and angry deep
Lashes its foaming billows o'er the bark
That bears th' accursed freight, till the scared crew
Into its yawning gulf cast forth the murderer.
On the embattled field, in armour cased,
His manly strength to blasted weakness turns.
Yea, in their peaceful homes, men, as by instinct,
From the dark rolling of his eye will turn
They know not why, so legibly has Nature
Set on his brow the mark of bloody Cain.
And shall I think the prosp'rous Garcio,—he
Whose countenance allured all eyes, whose smiles,
Whose voice was love, whose frame with strong affection
I've seen so dearly moved; who in my arms,
Who in my heart hath lived—No! let dark priests,
From the wild fancies of a dying man,
Accuse him as they will, I'll not believe it.
After another pause.)
Would in this better faith my mind had strength
To hold itself unshaken! Doubt is misery.
I'll go to him myself and tell my wretchedness.
O! if his kindling eye with generous ire
Repel the charge;—if his blest voice deny it,
Though one raised from the dead swore to its truth,
I'll not believe it. Enter Sophera.

What brings thee here again? Did I not charge thee
To go to bed?

Soph.
And so I did intend.
But in my chamber, half prepared for rest,
Op'ning the drawer of an ancient cabinet
To lay some baubles by, I found within—

Countess.
What hast thou found?

Soph.
Have I not heard you say, that shortly after
Your marriage with the count, from your apartment,
A picture of your brother, clad in mail,
A strong resemblance, over which your tears
Had oft been shed, was stol'n away?

Countess.
Thou hast.
How it was stol'n, for value it had none
For any but myself, I often wonder'd.
Thou hast not found it?

Soph.
See! this I have found.

[Giving her a picture, which she seizes eagerly.
Countess.
Indeed, indeed it is!
[After gazing mournfully on it.
Retire, I pray thee, nor, till morning break,
Return again, for I must be alone. [Exit Sophera.
(After gazing again on the picture.)

Alas! that lip, that eye, that arching brow;
That thoughtful look which I have often mark'd,
So like my noble father!
[Kissing it.
This for his dear, dear sake, and this for thine:
Ye sleep i' the dust together.—
Alas! how sweetly mantled thus thy cheek
At sight of those thou lovedst!—What things have been
What hours, what years of trouble have gone by,
Since thus in happy careless youth thou wast
Dearest and nearest to my simple heart.

[Kisses it again, and presses it to her breast, while Garcio, who has entered behind by a concealed door at the bottom of the stage, comes silently upon her, and she utters a scream of surprise.
Gar.
This is thy rest, then, and the quiet sleep
That should restore thy health: thou giv'st these hours
To the caressing of a minion's image
Which to a faithful husband are denied.
Oh, oh! they but on morning vapour tread,
Who ground their happiness on woman's faith.
Some reptile too!
[Stamping on the ground.
A paltry, worthless minion!

Countess.
Ha! was it jealousy so much disturb'd thee?
If this be so, we shall be happy still.
The love I bear the dead, dear though it be,
Surely does thee no wrong.

Gar.
No, artful woman! give it to my hand.
[Snatching at the picture.
That is the image of a living gallant.

Countess.
O would it were!
[Gives it to him, and he, starting as he looks upon it, staggers back some paces, till he is arrested by the pillar of the bed, against which he leans in a kind of stupor, letting the picture fall from his hands.
Merciful God! he's guilty!—am I thus?
Heav'n lend me strength! I'll be in doubt no longer.
[Running up to him, and clasping her hands together.
Garcio, a fearful thing is in my mind,
And curse me not that I have harbour'd it,
If that it be not so.—The wretched Baldwin,
Upon his death-bed, in his frenzied ravings,
Accused thee as the murderer of my brother:
O pardon me that such a monstrous tale
Had any power to move me!—Look upon me!
Say that thou didst it not, and I'll believe thee.
[A pause.
Thou dost not speak. What fearful look is that?
That blanching cheek! that quiv'ring lip!—O horrible!
[Catching hold of his clothes.
Open thy lips! relieve me from this misery!
Say that thou didst not do it.
[He remains silent, making a rueful motion of the head.
O God! thou didst, thou didst!
[Holds up her hands to heaven in despair, and then, recoiling from him to a distant part of the chamber, stands gazing on him with horror. Garcio, after great agitation, begins to approach her irresolutely.
I've shared thy love, been in thy bosom cherish'd,
But come not near me! touch me not! the earth
Yawning beneath my feet will shelter me
From thine accursed hand.

Gar.
O Margaret!
Can gentlest love to such fierce detestation
Be in an instant changed, for one sad deed,
The hasty act of a most horrid moment,
When hell and strong temptation master'd me?
And yet why marvel? for thou canst not more
Detest that deed than I, the wretched doer.

Countess.
Ah, ah! why didst thou?

Gar.
Listen to my story.
But, oh! the while, unfasten from my face
Those looks of horror, else I cannot tell it.

Countess.
Speak then, I hear thee.

Gar.
Thou knowst too well with what fierce pride Ulrico
Refused, on thy behalf, my suit of love;
Deeming a soldier, though of noble birth,
E'en his own blood, possessing but his arms
And some slight wreaths of fame, a match unmeet
For one whom lords of princely territory
Did strive to gain:—and here, indeed, I own
He rightly deem'd; my suit was most presumptuous.

Countess.
Well, pass this o'er;—I know with too much pride
He did oppose thy suit.

Gar.
That night! It was in dreary, dull November,
When at the close of day, with faithful Baldwin,
I reach'd this castle with the vain intent
To make a last attempt to move his pity.
I made it, and I fail'd. With much contempt
And aggravating passion, he dismiss'd me
To the dark night.

Countess.
You left him then? You left him?

Gar.
O yes! I left him. In my swelling breast
My proud blood boil'd. Through the wild wood I took
My darkling way. A violent storm arose;
The black dense clouds pour'd down their torrents on me;
The roaring winds aloft with the vex'd trees
Held strong contention, whilst my buffeted breast
The crushing tangled boughs and torn-up shrubs
Vainly opposed. Cross lay the wild'ring paths.
I miss'd the road; and after many turnings,
Seeing between the trees a steady light,
As from a window gleam, I hasten'd to it.
It was a lower window, and within,
The lighted chamber showed me but too well,
We had unwittingly a circuit made
Back to the very walls from whence we came.

Countess.
Ah, fated, fatal error! most perverse!

Gar.
But, oh! what feelings, thinkst thou, rose within me?
What thoughts, what urging thoughts, what keen suggestions
Crowded upon me like a band of fiends,
When, on a nearer view, within the chamber,
Upon an open couch, alone and sleeping,
I saw Ulrico?

Countess.
Didst thou slay him sleeping?
The horrible deed!—Thou couldst not! O thou couldst not!

Gar.
Well mayst thou say it! I've become, sweet Margaret,
Living, though most unworthy as I was,
Companion of thy virtues, one, whose heart
Has been to good affections form'd and bent;
But then it was not so.—My hapless youth
In bloody, savage, predatory war
Was rear'd. It was no shock to my rude childhood
To see whole bands of drunk or sleeping men
In cold blood butcher'd. Could I tell to thee
The things that I have seen: things, too, in which
My young hand took its part; thou wouldst not wonder,
That, seeing thus my enemy in my power,
Love, fortune, honours, all within the purchase
Of one fell stroke, I raised my arm and gave it.

Countess.
Fearful temptation!

Gar.
After a fearful pause, I softly enter'd.
The deed was done; and, hastening from the chamber
With breathless speed back to the spot where Baldwin
Held my brave steed, I mounted, favour'd now
By a new-risen moon and waning storm;
And to the fleetness of that noble creature
I owe it, that though heir to him I slew,
No whisper of suspicion upon me
E'er breathed as perpetrator of the deed.

Countess.
And I have been the while thy bosom's mate,
Pressing in plighted love the bloody hand
That slew my brother!

Gar.
Thou, indeed, hast been
An angel pure, link'd to a fiend. Yet, think not
I have enjoy'd what guilt so deep had earn'd.
Oh no! I've borne about, where'er I went,
A secret wretchedness within my breast
Turning delight to torment. Now thou knowest
Why on my midnight couch thou'st heard me oft
Utter deep groans, when thou, waked from thy sleep,
Hast thought some nightmare press'd me.
Oh! were the deed undone, not all the diff'rence
Of sublunary bliss that lies between
A world's proud monarch and the loathliest wretch
That gleans subsistence from the fetid dunghill,
Would tempt me to embrue my hands in murder.

[Speaking these last words loudly and vehemently.
Countess.
Hush! speak not thus! thou'lt be o'erheard: some list'ner
Is at the door. I thought I heard a noise.

[Going to the door, opening it, then shutting it softly and returning. No; there is nothing: 'twas my fears deceived me.
Gar.
And dost thou fear for me? Are there within thee
Still some remains of love for one so guilty?
Thou wilt not then, in utter detestation,
Heap curses on my head.

Countess.
Guilty as thou hast been, I cannot curse thee.
O no! I'll nightly from my cloister'd cell
Send up to pitying heaven my prayers for thee.

Gar.
Thy cloister'd cell! What mean those threat'ning words?

Countess.
Garcio, we must part.

Gar.
No; never! Any punishment but this!
We shall not part.

Countess.
We must, we must! 'Twere monstrous, 'twere unholy
Longer to live with thee.

Gar.
No, Margaret, no! Thinkst thou I will indeed
Submit to this, e'en cursed as I am?
No; were I black as hell's black fiends, and thou
Pure as celestial spirits (and so thou art),
Still thou art mine; my sworn, my wedded love,
And still as such I'll hold thee.

Countess.
Heav'n bids us part: yea, nature bids us part.

Gar.
Heav'n bids us part! Then let it send its lightning
To strike me from thy side. Let yawning earth,
Op'ning beneath my feet, divide us. Then,
And not till then, will I from thee be sever'd.

Countess.
Let go thy terrible grasp: thou wouldst not o'er me
A dreaded tyrant rule? Beneath thy power
Thou mayst indeed retain me, crush'd, degraded,
Watching in secret horror every glance
Of thy perturbed eye, like a quell'd slave,
If this suffice thee; but each tie of love—
All sympathy between us now is broken
And lost for ever.

Gar.
And canst thou be so ruthless? No, thou canst not!
Let heav'n in its just vengeance deal with me!
Let pain, remorse, disease, and every ill
Here in this world of nature be my portion!
And in the world of spirits too well I know
The murd'rer's doom abides me.
Is this too little for thy cruelty?
No; by the living God! on my curst head
Light every ill but this! We shall not part.

Countess.
Let go thy desp'rate hold, thou desp'rate man!
Thou dost constrain me to an oath as dreadful;
And by that awful name—

Gar.
Forbear, forbear!
Then it must be; there is no mitigation.

[Throws himself on the ground, uttering a deep groan, when Rovani and Sophera burst in upon them from opposite sides.
Rov.
(to the Countess).
What is the matter? Hath he on himself
Done some rash act? I heard him loud and stormy.

Soph.
She cannot answer thee: look to the count,
And I will place her gently on her couch;
For they are both most wretched.

[Sophera supports the Countess, while Rovani endeavours to raise Garcio from the ground, and the scene closes.

SCENE III.

The inside of a rustic hermitage; the hermit discovered marking a figure on the wall.
Hermit.
This day to all the lonely days here spent;
Making a term of thirty years' repentance
For forty years of sin. Heav'n of its mercy
Accept the sacrifice! Who knocks without?
[Knocking at the door.
'Tis nothing but my fancy. Break of day
Yet scarcely peeps, nor hath a new-waked bird
Chirp'd on my branchy roof.
[Knocking again.
Nay, something does.
Lift up the latch, whoe'er thou art; nor lock
Nor bar, nor any hind'rance e'er prevents
Those who would enter here.

Enter Rovani.
Rov.
O pardon, holy hermit, this intrusion
At such untimely hour; for misery
Makes free with times and seasons.

Hermit.
Thou sayest well: it will doff ceremony
E'en in a monarch's court. Sit down, I pray:
I am myself a poor repentant sinner,
But, as I trust, a brand saved from the fire.
Then tell thy tale, and give thy sorrows vent:
What can I do for myself entreat thy pity

Rov.
I do not for myself entreat thy pity
But I am come from an unhappy man,
Who, inly torn with agony of mind,
Hath need of ghostly aid.

Hermit.
I am no priest.

Rov.
I know thou art not, but far better, father,
For that which I entreat thee:
The cowled monk, in peaceful cloisters bred,
Who hath for half a cent'ry undisturb'd
Told o'er his beads; what sympathy hath he
For perturb'd souls, storm-toss'd i' the wicked world?
Therefore Count Garcio most desires to see thee,
And will to thee alone unlock his breast.

Hermit.
Garcio, the lord of this domain?

Rov.
The same.

Hermit.
The blest in love, the rich, the prosp'rous Garcio?

Rov.
He hath since dead of night traversed his chamber
Like one distraught, or cast him on the ground
In all the frantic violence of despair.
I have watch'd by him, but from thee alone
He will hear words of counsel or of peace.
Thy voice, perhaps, will calm a stormy spirit
That ne'er has known control.

Hermit.
God grant it may!
We'll lose no time, my son; I follow thee.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An ante-room; Rovani discovered pacing to and fro.
Rov.
Their conference is long. The gentle hermit
Has had, I fear, no easy task.—He comes! Enter Hermit.

Save thee, good father! hath thy shriving sped?
How is thy penitent?

Hermit.
Better, I hope: may heav'n preserve his mind
In the meek frame in which I left it! Never,
In all my intercourse with wretched sinners,
Have I with a more keen ungovern'd spirit
Stronger contention held.

Rov.
I well believe thee:
For I have seen ere now his spirit strive
In all the restless energy of passion.
Thou hast at last subdued him?

Hermit.
Thank God, I have! Meek and resign'd to heav'n
He now appears. But go to him, my son;
He needs thy presence much. Within an hour
He leaves the castle,—leaves his wife and child;
It is not fit that he should be alone.
Go, good Rovani, and with soothing words
Keep thou his resolution to the bent.

Rov.
Ah! such a resolution! Heard I right?
To leave his wife and child?

Hermit.
Question me not, my son; there is good cause:
'Tis meet that he should go.

Rov.
Forgive me, father!
That solemn voice and sorrowing eye too well
Asserts there is a cause,—a fearful cause.
I will obey thee.
[Going, but returns again.
Is there aught further thou wouldst have me do?

Hermit.
He will, perhaps, desire to see his lady;
But till he be prepared to leave the castle,
And take his last farewell, methinks 'twere better
They should not meet.

Rov.
I understand you, father.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The apartment of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat, her elbows resting on her lap, and her face covered with her clasped hands. She raises her head suddenly, listens for a moment, and then springs from her seat.
Countess.
I am not now deceived.
[Goes to the door and listens, then returns.
I heard his steps,—
Yea, and his voice,—and it was nothing. Ah!
My mind and senses so confused are grown,
That all this wretchedness seems like a dream;
A dream, alas! from which there is no waking.
I hear him now: it is a distant step:
I may be yet deceived.
[Going near the door, and listening again.
It is, it is!
Heav'n give me strength! my trial is at hand!

Enter Garcio, who approaches her, and then stopping short, gazes at her sadly, while she stands with her eyes fixed on the ground.
Gar.
Marg'ret, I thought—I hoped—I hoped—I was persuaded
The farewell yearnings of a broken heart
Would move thee to some pity of my state;
But that averted face, that downcast eye,—
There is abhorrence in it.

Countess.
O no! I fear'd to look; 'tis not abhorrence.

[Raises her eyes to him, and shrinks back.
Gar.
What moves thee thus?

Countess.
Alas! thou'rt greatly alter'd:
So pale thy cheek, thine eyes so quench'd and sunk!
Hath one short night so changed thee?

Gar.
A night spent in the tossings of despair,
When the fierce turmoil of contending passions
To deepest self-abasement and contrition,
Sabside;—a night in which I have consented
To tear my bosom up—to rend in twain
Its dearest, only ties—ay, such a night
Works on the mortal frame the scath of years.

Countess.
Alas! thy frame will feel, I fear, too soon
The scath of years. Sorrow and sickness then
Will bow thee down, while cold unkindly strangers
Neglect thy couch, nor give thee needful succour.

Gar.
And wherefore grieve for this? So much the better:
They least befriend the wretched who retard
The hour of his relcase.—Why should I live
If heav'n accept my penitence? Hath earth
Aught still to raise a wish, or gleam the path
Of one so darken'd round with misery?

Countess.
Nay, say not so: thy child, thy boy, to see him
In strength and stature grown,—would not this tempt thee
To wish some years of life?

Gar.
Others shall rear him; others mark his change
From the sweet cherub to the playful boy;
Shall, with such pity as an orphan claims,
Share in his harmless sports and catch his love;
While I, if that I live and am by heav'n
Permitted, coming as a way-worn stranger,
At distant intervals, to gaze upon him,
And strain him to my heart, shall from his eye
The cold and cheerless stare of wonderment
Instead of love receive.

Countess.
O think not so! he shall be taught to love thee;
He shall be taught to lisp thy name, and raise
His little hands to heav'n for blessings on thee
As one most dear, though absent.

Gar.
I do believe that thou wilt teach him so.
I know that in my lonely state of penitence,
Sever'd from earthly bliss, I to thy mind
Shall be like one whom death hath purified.
O that, indeed, or death or any suff'rings,
By earthly frame or frameless spirit endured,
Could give me such a nature as again
Might be with thine united!
Could I but forward look and trust to this,
Whatever suff'rings of a lengthen'd life
Before me lay, would be to me as nothing;
As the rough billows of some stormy frith,
Upon whose further shore fair regions smile;
As the rent shroudings of a murky cloud,
Through which the mountain traveller, as he bends
His mantled shoulders to the pelting storm,
Sees sunny brightness peer. Could I but think—

Countess.
Think it! believe it! with a rooted faith,
Trust to it surely. Deep as thy repentance,
Aspiring be thy faith!

Gar.
Ay, were my faith
Strong as my penitence, 'twere well indeed.
My scourge and bed of earth would then be temper'd
Almost to happiness.

Countess.
Thy scourge and bed of earth! alas, alas!
And meanst thou then to wreak upon thyself
Such cruel punishment? O no, my Garcio!
God doth accept the sorrow of the heart
Before all studied penance. 'Tis not well:
Where'er thou art, live thou with worthy men,
And as becomes thy state.

Gar.
No; when from hence a banish'd man I go;
I'll leave behind me all my crime did purchase.
Deprived of thee, its first and dearest meed,
Shall I retain its base and paltry earnings
To live with strangers more regarded? No;
Poor as I was when first my luckless steps
This fatal threshold pass'd,—I will depart.

Countess.
And wilt thou then a houseless wand'rer be?
Shall I, in warm robe wrapp'd, by winter fire
List to the pelting blast, and think the while
Of thy unshelter'd head?—
Or eat my bread in peace, and think that Garcio—
Reduce me not to such keen misery.

[Bursting into an agony of tears.
Gar.
And dost thou still feel so much pity for me?
Retain I yet some portion of thy love?
O, if I do! I am not yet abandon'd
To utter reprobation.
[Falling at her feet, and embracing her knees.
Margaret! wife!
May I still call thee by that name so dear?

Countess
(disentangling herself from his hold, and removing to some distance).
O, leave me, leave me! for heav'n's mercy leave me!

Gar.
following her, and bending one knee to the ground).
Marg'ret, beloved wife! keenly beloved!

Countess.
Oh, move me not! forbear, forbear in pity!
Fearful, and horrible, and dear thou art!
Both heaven and hell are in thee! Leave me then,—
Leave me to do that which is right and holy.

Gar.
Yes, what is right and holy thou shalt do;
Stain'd as I am with blood,—with kindred blood,
How could I live with thee? O do not think
I basely seek to move thee from thy purpose.
O, no! Farewell, most dear and honoured Marg'ret!
Yet, ere I go, couldst thou without abhorrence—

[Pauses.
Countess.
What wouldst thou, Garcio?

Gar.
If but that hand beloved were to my lips
Once more in parting press'd, methinks I'd go
With lighten'd misery.—Alas! thou canst not!
Thou canst not to such guilt—

Countess.
I can! I will!
And heaven in mercy pardon me this sin,
If sin it be.

[Embraces him, and after weeping on his neck, breaks suddenly away and exit, while Garcio stands gazing after her.
Gar.
Have I not seen my last?—I've seen my last.
Then wherefore wait I here?—
The world before me lies.—a desert world,
In which a banish'd wand'rer I must be.
[A pause.
Wander from hence, and leave her so defenceless
In these unruly times! I cannot do it!
I'll seem to go, yet hover near her still,
Like spell-bound spirit near th' embalmed dust
It can no more reanimate. Mine eyes
May see her distant form, mine ears may hear
Her sweet voice through the air, while she believes
Kingdoms or seas divide us.
The hermit is my friend, to him I'll go.
Rest for the present, eager crowding thoughts!
I must not linger here.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

An outer court of the castle; an arched gateway in front with a stone bench on one side of it.
Enter Ludovico, Gauvino, and Pietro, and seat themselves on the bench.
Gau.
The ev'ning breeze will cool us better here.

Lud.
After the sultry day it is refreshing.

Pie.
(to Gauvino).
Well, as I was a-saying to the seneschal,
I wonder that the count should think of choosing
That noodle Gomez to attend upon him.

Gau.
He has some reason for it, be assured

Lud.
How so, good chamberlain?

Gau.
Heaven knows! but this fantastical Rovani,
Whom as his deputy he leaves behind,
Already takes upon him, by my faith!
As if his kingdom were to last for ever.

Lud.
Thou speakst in spleen; he seems to me right gracious.

Gau.
I say not in the way of tyranny
He takes upon him; 'tis his very graciousness,
His condescending vanity I hate.
A vain, assuming coxcomb! E'en when Garcio
Frown'd like a master o'er us, yet my heart
Acknowledged him as such, and loved him oft
The better for his sternness.

Lud.
Didst thou? I'm sure full many a time and oft
Thou'st grumbled like a fiend, whene'er his orders,
Too roughly given, have cross'd thy wiser will.

Gau.
Well, well; perhaps I have! yet, ne'ertheless,
Would he were with us still!

Pie.
Ay, would he were!

Lud.
Perhaps he'll soon return.

Gau.
(significantly).
He'll ne'er return.—We'll see him here no more.

Lud.
Why sayst thou so?

Gau.
I have my reasons: he hath been too prosperous.

Pie.
And what of that?

Gau.
The power that has upheld him,
Will, when his term is up, dire reck'ning take.

Pie.
What dost thou mean?

Gau.
Nay, if thou canst not guess,
I will not utter more.

Lud.
Ha! yonder Gomez comes!

Pie.
Gomez, indeed!

[All rising to meet him.
Lud.
His lord is then return'd.

Enter Gomez.
Omnes.
Return'd already, man! Where is thy master?

Lud.
Is he not with thee?

Gomez.
I would he were. I left him some leagues hence;
By his command charged to return again,
And follow him no more. Long I entreated
To be permitted still to share his fate,
But was at last constrain'd to leave him.

Gau.
Ha!
Constrain'd! 'tis very strange. Where didst thou leave him?

Gomez.
In the dark centre of a gloomy forest,
Dismounting, to my care he gave his steed,
And, as I said before, so strictly charged me,
I was constrain'd to leave him.

Gau.
A dark forest?

Lud.
Sawst thou where he went?

Gomez.
He turn'd away, and I with heavy cheer—

Gau.
(very eagerly).
Didst thou not look behind thee in retreating
To see what path he took?

Gomez.
I look'd behind,
But in a moment lost him from my sight.

Gau.
(shaking his head).
'Tis marvellous strange!
Was there nor pit, nor cave, nor flood at hand?

Gomez.
Not that I noticed. Why dost shake thy head?

Gau.
He'll never more upon this earth be seen.
Whether or cave, or gulf, or flood received him,
He is, ere this, I fear, beneath the earth
Full deep enough, reck'ning with him who bought him.

Pie.
Reck'ning with him who bought him! Be there then
Such fearful compacts with the wicked power?

Gau.
Have ye not heard of John the Prosperous,
Who, starting at the sound of piping winds,
That burst his chamber door, full sore aghast,
With trembling steps his gorgeous chamber left,
And, by himself in a small boat embark'd,
Steering his way to the black wheeling eddy
In centre of the lake, which swallow'd him?

Pie.
My flesh creeps at the thought?

Gomez.
Dost thou believe it?

Gau.
Ay; or what think ye of the Count Avergo,
Who, after years of such successful crimes,
Took leave of all his friends, at warning given
By sound of midnight trumpet at his gate;
Round which, 'tis said, a band of plumed spectres,
Whose whiten'd bony jaws and eyeless sockets
Did from their open'd beavers to the moon
Stare horribly, stood ready to receive him?

Omnes.
And went he with them?

Gau.
Ay, certes, did he! for above the ground
With mortal men he never more was seen.
(To Gomez.)
But enter, man, and have a stoup of wine;
Thou seemest faint and spent.

Omnes.
Ay, give him wine, for see how pale he is.

Pie.
Like one who hath been near unearthly things.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The garden.
Enter the Countess and Sophera.
Soph.
(speaking as they enter).
And look, I pray, how sweet and fresh and fragrant
The dewy morning is. There, o'er our heads
The birds conven'd like busy gossips sit,
Trimming their speckled feathers. In the thick
And tufted herbage, with a humming noise
Stirs many a new-waked thing; among the grass
Beetles, and lady-birds, and lizards glide,
Showing their shining coats like tinted gold.

Countess.
Yes, all things, in a sunny morn like this,
That social being have and fellowship
With others of their kind, begin the day
Gladly and actively. Ah! how wakes he,
His day of lonesome silence to begin,
Who, of all social intercourse bereft,
On the cold earth hath pass'd the dismal night?
Cheerful domestic stir, nor crowing cock,
Nor greeting friend, nor fawning dog hath he
To give him his good-morrow.

Soph.
Nay, do not let your fancy brood on this.
Think not my lord, though he with Gomez parted
In a lone wood, will wander o'er the earth
In dreary solitude. In every country
Kind hearts are found to cheer the stranger's way.

Countess.
Heaven grant he meet with such!

Soph.
Then be not so cast down. Last night the air
Was still and pleasant; sweetly through the trees,
Which moved not, look'd the stars and crescent moon:
The night-bird's lengthen'd call with fitful lapse,
And the soft ceaseless sound of distant rills
Upon the list'ning ear came soothingly;
While the cool freshness of the air was mix'd
With rising odours from the flowery earth.
In such sweet summer nights, be well assured
The unhoused head sleeps soundest.

Countess.
The unhoused head! and Garcio's now is such!
I could not sleep; and, as I paced my chamber,
Alas! thought I, how long a term is night
To lonely watchers! e'en a summer's night.
And in the lengthen'd gloom of chill December—
Why dost thou move?

Soph.
There is a stranger coming.

Countess.
Perhaps it is some message from my lord.

Soph.
I rather fear it is Tortona's lord.

Countess.
I wish my gate had not been open'd to him.
Will he persist to press his presence on me?

Enter Tortona.
Tor.
Pardon me, madam, this too bold intrusion,
But hov'ring round your walls, like the poor moth
Circling the fatal flame, I needs must enter.
I was compell'd to do it. May I hope
I see you well as lovely, and inclined,
From the angelic sweetness of your nature,
To pardon me?

Countess.
You still preserve, my lord, I do perceive,
The bountiful profusion of a tongue
Well stored with courteous words.

Tor.
Nay, rather say,
A tongue that is of all expression beggar'd,
That can the inward sentiments declare
Which your angelic presence still inspires.
(Pointing to Sophera.)
This lady knows how deep, how true they are.
She did refuse, yet, ne'ertheless, I trust
She bore my secret message to your ear.

Soph.
'Twas well for you I did not, good my lord;
You had not else, I trow, found entrance here.

Countess.
It had, in truth, prevented this presumption.
A secret message, saidst thou, for the ear
Of Garcio's wife!

Tor.
And does the man who quits thee,—
Like a dull dolt such heavenly beauty quits,—
Deserve the name of husband? No, sweet Marg'ret;
Gloze not to me thy secret wrongs: I know,
Full well I know them; nor shall formal names
And senseless ties my ardent love repel.

[Catching hold of her hand.
Countess
(shaking him off).
Base and audacious fool! did not thy folly
Almost excuse thy crime, thou shouldst most dearly
Repent this insult. Thinkest thou my lord
Has left me unprotected?—Ho! Rovani!
Move with a quicker step. Enter Rovani, followed by Gonzalos.

(To Tortona, pointing to Rovani.)
Behold, my lord, the friend of absent Garcio,
And in his absence holder of this castle.
To his fair courtesy, as it is meet,
I now consign you with all due respect;
And so farewell.

[Exit, followed by Sophera.
Tor.
I might, indeed, have known that modern dames
An absent husband's substitute can find
Right speedily.

Rov.
(aside to Gonzalos).
Jealous of me, I hear.
It makes my soldier's plume more proudly wave
To think such fancies twitch him.
[Aloud to Tortona, advancing to meet him.
Noble marquis!
Proud of the lady's honourable charge.
That to my care entrusts a guest so valued,
Let me entreat you to partake within
Some slight refreshment. After such fatigue,
So early and so gallantly encounter'd,
(Two leagues at least upon an ambling steed
Your morning's hardships fairly may be reckon'd,)
You must require refreshment.

Tor.
Paltry coxcomb!

Rov.
Yes, paltry as a coxcomb. good my lord,
Compared to greater. Pardon a deficiency
Your presence has occasion'd, and permit
That I conduct you—

Tor.
Most contemptible!
Follow me not! My way from this curst place
I'll find without a guide.

Rov.
Then be it so.
If it so please you: and, farewell, my lord,
Until within these walls you shall again
Vouchsafe to honour us.

Tor.
Which may be, jeering minion, somewhat sooner
Than thou dost reckon for.

Rov.
Whene'er you will, we're ready to receive you.
[Exit Tortona.
He calls me minion: seest thou not, Gonzalos,
Which way suspicion leans? The fool is jealous,—
Jealous of me! Hath any one besides
Harbour'd such foolish fancies?

Gon.
No, by St. Francis! ne'er a soul besides
Hath such a thought conceived, or ever will.

Rov.
Thou'rt angry: dost thou think my thoughts are evil?

Gon.
No; evil thoughts thrive not within thy breast,
Valiant Rovani; this I know right well:
But vain ones there a fatt'ning culture find,
And reach a marv'llous growth.

Rov.
Well, do not chide: I will with scrupulous honour
Fulfil my trust; and do but wish my arms
The lady and this castle might defend
Against a worthier foe than that light braggart.

Gon.
But thou knowst well, or ought to know, Rovani,
A braggart may be brave. Faith! were it not
For some small grains of wit and honest worth
Which poor Tortona lacks, thyself and he
In natural temper'ment and spirit are
So nearly match'd, you might twin nestlings be
From the same shell.—Be not so rash, I pray!
Tortona is no coward; and his forces
Greater than thou in ruin'd walls like these
Canst prudently oppose: therefore be wise,
And send for timely aid, lest he surprise thee.

Rov.
I will be hang'd before another soldier
Shall be admitted here.

Gon.
See to it then.

Rov.
And so I will; it is not thy concern.

[Exit Gonzalos.
Rov.
(alone).
He, too, 'tis manifest, has some suspicion
That Marg'ret favours me.
[Muttering, and smiling to himself, then speaking aloud.
Ay, those same looks. Well, well, and if it be,
It touches not our honour.—Fair advice!
Call in some neighbouring leader of banditti
To share the honour of defending her!
I know his spite. Twin nestlings from the shell
With such a fool! I know his jealous spite.
I will be hang'd before another soldier
Shall cross the bridge or man our moated wall.

[Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The outer court of the castle. Hermit, pilgrim, and several mendicants, discovered standing round the gateway at the bottom of the stage.
Enter, on the front, Ludovico, Gauvino, and Gomez.
Gau.
The rumour of our lady's bounteous alms
Spreads o'er the country quickly; every morning
Adds to the number of those mendicants,—
Those slothful pests, who thus beset our gates.

Lud.
Rail not so bitterly; there are, thou seest,
The sick and maim'd, and truly miserable,
Although some idle vagrants with the crowd
Have enter'd cunningly. Dost thou not see
Our hermit is among them?

Gau.
What, comes he too a-begging? Shame upon him!
His cot is stored with every dainty thing
Our peasant housewives rear, poor simple souls!
And prowls he here for more?

Gomez.
He never came before.

Lud.
Ay, and belike
He rather comes to give than to receive.

Gau.
And what hath he to give? God mend thy wit!
A broken rosary?

Lud.
A good man's blessing.

Gau.
Pooh, pooh! what folks are wont to sell at home,
They will not go abroad to give for nothing.

Gomez.
And see yon aged pilgrim by his side,
How spent and spare he seems!

Gau.
Hovels, and caves, and lazar-houses soon
Will pour their pests upon us.

Lud.
Hush, man! thou art a surly heartless churl!
Yonder the lady comes.

Enter Countess.
Mendicants
(advancing, and all speaking at once as she enters).
Blessings upon your head, most noble lady!

Countess.
I thank you all: have they been careful of you?

Mendicants.
Ay, bless you! they have served us bountifully.

Countess.
But wherefore stand ye here? Retire within,
Where ye may sit at case and eat your morsel.
Good pilgrim, thou art weary and lackst rest;
I fear the hardships of thy wand'ring life
Have blanch'd thy scanty locks more than thine years.

Pilgrim.
No, gentle lady: heav'n provides for me.
When ev'ning closes, still some shelt'ring cave,
Or peasant's cot, or goatherd's shed is near;
And, should the night in desert parts o'ertake me,
It pleases me to think the beating blast
Has its commission, by rough discipline
To profit me withal.

Countess.
The beating blasts have well fulfill'd on thee
Their high commission.
But, oh! exceed not! Wander forth no more.
If thou hast home, or wife, or child, or aught
Of human kind that loves thee, O return!
Return to them, and end thy days in peace.
Didst thou but know the misery of those
Who hear the night-blast rock their walls, and think
The head to them most dear may be unshelter'd,
Thou couldst not be so cruel—
(Turning round.)
Who twitch'd my robe?

Lud.
It was our holy hermit,
Who press'd, e'en now, its border to his lips,
Then shrank aside.

Countess.
But how is this? He hurries fast away.

Lud.
He is a bashful man, whose hooded face
On woman never looks.

Countess.
Has he some vow upon him?

Lud.
'Tis like he may; but he will pray for you.

Countess.
And good men's prayers prevail, I do believe.

Lud.
Ay, madam, all the peasants round, I trow,
Set by his prayers great store. E'en mothers leave
The very cradles of their dying infants
To beg them. Wives, whose husbands are at sea,
Or absent, or in any jeopardy,
Hie to his cell to crave his intercession.

Countess.
Do they? Most blessed man!
[Beckoning to the hermit, who stands aloof.
I have words for thine ear; approach, I pray.
[Leading him apart, on the front of the stage.
The absent and in jeopardy by thee
Remember'd are, and heav'n receives thy prayers:
Then, oh! remember one, who for himself,
Depress'd, discouraged, may not to God's throne
Meet supplication make!
[Taking him further apart, and in a lower voice.
There is a lonely wand'rer in the world
Of whom thou wottest. When the vespers sweet
And ev'ning orisons of holy men
Sound through the air, and in his humble cot,
With all his family round, th' unlearn'd hind
Lifts up his soul to heaven; when e'en the babe,
Tutor'd to goodness, by its mother kneels
To lisp some holy word,—on the cold ground,
Unbleer'd of earthly thing, he'll lay him down
Unblest, I fear, and silent. Such a one
Thou wottest of, good father; pray for him.
How's this? thou'rt greatly moved, and dost not answer.
Have I requested what thou mayst not grant?
Heav'n hath not cast him off. O do not think it!
The heart that loved him hath not cast him off,
And do not thou. Pray for him: God will hear thee.
[He retires from her; she still following him.
I do entreat, I do beseech thee, father!
I saw thy big tears glancing as they fell,
Though shrouded be thy face. Wilt thou not speak?

Hermit
(in a disguised voice).
I will obey thee, lady.

Countess
(to herself).
He hath a strange, mistuned, and hollow voice,
For one of so much sympathy.
[Alarm bell without.
Ha! the alarm! What may it be? Ho! Pietro.

Enter Pietro, in haste.
Pie.
Haste, shut the castle gates, and with all speed
Muster our strength,—there is no time to lose.
Madam, give orders quickly. Where's Rovani?

Countess.
What is the matter? Why this loud alarm?

Pie.
The Marquis of Tortona, not far distant,
With hasty march approaches, as I guess
Three thousand strong.

[Alarm rings again, and enter Rovani, Gonzalos, and others, from different sides.
Countess.
Heav'n be our trust! Hearest thou this, Rovani?

Rov.
I've heard the larum bell and strange confusion.

Countess.
Tortona with his hostile force approaches—
(To Pietro.)
Tell it thyself; saidst thou three thousand strong?

Pie.
Yes, madam, so I did compute his numbers;
And with him, too, one of those horrid engines
So lately known, which from its roaring mouth
Sends horrible destruction.
Not two leagues off I met him in array
Skirting the forest; and through dell and stream,
Fast as my feet could bear me, I have run
To give you notice.

Countess.
Heaven aid the weak! I fear our slender force
Will be as nothing 'gainst such fearful odds.
What thinkest thou, Rovani? for on thee
Our fate depends.

Rov.
Fear not, my noble mistress!
I will defend you. In your service bold,
Each of your men will ten men's strength possess.
Withdraw, then, I entreat you, to your tower,
And these good folks dismiss. [Pointing to the mendicants that still remain.
[Exeunt Countess and all the mendicants except the hermit, who retires to a corner of the stage.


Gon.
(advancing to Rovani on the front).
Rovani, be thou bold, yet be not rash.
I warn'd thee well of this; but let that pass:
Only be wiser now. There is a leader
Of bold condottieri, not far distant;
Send to him instantly: there may be time.

Rov.
I will not: we can well defend these walls
'Gainst greater odds; and I could swear that coward
Has number'd, in his fright, Tortona's soldiers
Threefold beyond the truth. Go to thy duty:
Muster the men within, while I, meantime,
From place to place all needful orders give.

[Exeunt Gonzalos and Rovani severally, while many people cross the stage in hurry and confusion, Rovani calling to them sometimes on one side, sometimes on another, as he goes off.
Gomez
(to Ludovico, following Rovani with his eye).
A brave man this, and gives his orders promptly.

Lud.
Ay; brave enough, but rash. Alack the day!
Would that our valiant lord were here himself,
His own fair dame and castle to defend.
Alas! that evil deed e'er stain'd his hand,—
If this were so: we'll see his like no more.

Hermit
(going close to Ludovico).
Fear not, good man, who lov'st thy hapless lord;
Give me thine ear.

[Whispers to him.
Lud.
(aside to hermit).
Conceal thee in that tower!

Hermit.
Hush, hush! and come with me: I will convince thee
That what I ask is for thy lady's good.

[Exeunt, hermit leading off Ludovico from Gomez.

SCENE II.

The great hall of the castle.
Enter the Countess, meeting Sophera; a confused noise heard without, and a discharge of cannon.
Countess.
What sawst thou from the turrets, for thy face
Looks pale and terrified? The din increases;
They have not made a breach?

Soph.
I hope they have not; but that fearful engine
Is now against our weakest buttress pointed.
[Cannon heard again.
It roars again; have mercy on us, heaven!
How the walls shake, as if an earthquake rock'd them!

Countess.
My child, my child! I'll to the lowest vaults
Convey him instantly.

Soph.
But you forget th' attack is still directed
Against the eastern side; here he is safe.

Countess.
And may th' Almighty ever keep him so!

[Cannon without.
Soph.
Again the horrible roar!

Countess.
Our ruin'd walls are weak, our warriors few:
Should they effect a breach!—O Garcio, Garcio!
Where wand'rest thou, unblest, unhappy man,
Who hadst our safeguard been! Enter Pietro.

Ha! bringst thou tidings?

Pie.
Ay, and fearful tidings.
The foe have made a breach, and through the moat,
Now grown so shallow with the summer drought,
Have made their way.

Countess.
Where does Rovani fight?

Pie.
He did fight in the breach most valiantly;
But now the foemen o'er his body pass,
For he is slain, and all, I fear, is lost.

Countess.
It must not be: I'll to the walls myself;
My soldiers will with desperate courage fight,
When they behold their wretched mistress near.

Soph.
(endeavouring to prevent her).
O, madam, do not go!
Alas, alas! our miserable fate!

Countess.
Restrain me not with senseless lamentations;
Driven to this desp'rate state, what is my choice?
For now I must be bold, or despicable.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The ramparts. Women discovered looking down from one of the lower battlements of the castle; the din and clashing of arms heard without, as if close at hand; then Tortona and his soldiers cross the stage, fighting with the soldiers of the castle.
1st woman.
See, there! see how our noble lady stands,
And bravely cheers them!

2d woman.
If they have any soul or manhood in them,
They'll fight like raging lions for her sake.

Gon.
(without).
Fie, fie! give way before your lady's eyes!

1st woman.
Ay, brave Gonzalos there right nobly strives;
But all in vain,—the enemy advance;
They gain the pass, and our base varlets yield.
(Voice without.)
Bear in the lady there; 'tis desperation!
(2d voice without.)
Resistance now is vain; bear in the lady!
(3d voice without.)
A miracle! a miracle!

1st woman.
What is't? Why call they out a miracle?

2d woman.
Hast thou not eyes to see? Upon our side
The hermit combats, coiling round one arm
His twisted garments, whilst the other wields
A monstrous brand, might grace a giant's grasp.
O brave! look how he fights! he doth not fight
Like mortal man: heav'n sends him to our aid.

1st woman.
And see! there is another miracle!
See Ludovico fighting by his side!
Who could have thought our gentle seneschal
Had pith and soul enough to fight so bravely?

2d woman.
See, see! the vile Tortonians stand aghast:
They turn, they fly!

[Loud shouts heard without, and re-enter Tortona and his party, pursued by the soldiers of the castle, led on by the hermit.
Hermit.
Turn, valiant chieftain! the most gen'rous foe
Of dames, whose lords are absent; turn, for shame!
Do not disgrace thy noble enterprise
With wounds received behind. Whate'er their cause,
Tortona's lords have still been soldiers. Turn,
Or be the scorn of every beardless boy,
Whose heart beats at the sound of warlike coil.
Thou canst not fear a man unhelm'd, unmail'd?

Tor.
No; if a man thou art, I fear thee not!

Hermit.
Well, to it, then, and prove me flesh and blood.

Tor.
Whate'er thou art, I'll bear thy scorn no longer.

[Exeunt, fighting furiously.

SCENE IV.

The great hall: a shouting heard without.
Enter Pietro, calling as he enters.
Pie.
Where is the countess?

Enter Sophera, by the opposite side.
Soph.
Thy voice calls gladly; dost thou bring good tidings?

Pie.
I do; but stop me not! Where is the countess?

Enter Countess in haste.
Countess.
What joyful shouts were those? My soldiers' voices!
Some happy chance has changed the fate of battle.

Pie.
Ay, changed most happily.

Countess.
And heaven be praised!
How has it been, good Pietro? Tell me quickly.

Pie.
When we were panic-strick'n, reft of our wits,
Treading, like senseless sheep, each other down,
Heav'n sent us aid.

Countess.
And be its goodness praised!
So near the verge of merciless destruction,
What blessed aid was sent?

Pie.
By our fierce enemy, as I have said,
So sorely press'd, a powerful voice was heard
Calling our courage back; and on the sudden,
As if the yawning earth had sent it up,
A noble form, clad in the hermit's weeds,
But fighting with such fury irresistible
As armed warrior, no, nor mortal man
Did ever fight, upon our side appear'd,
Inspiring us with valour. Instantly
We turn'd again on our astonish'd foe,
Who fled to gain the breach by which they enter'd.
Few have escaped; and by our noble hermit
Tortona's lord is slain.

Countess
(after looking up to heaven in silent adoration).
That mighty Arm which still protects the innocent.
Weak woman, helpless infancy, and all
Bereft and desolate, hath fought for us!
But he, the blessed agent of its power,
Our brave deliv'rer, lead me to him instantly!
Where is the marv'llous man?

Pie.
I left him, madam, on the eastern rampart,
Just as Tortona fell.—See Ludovico,
Who still fought nearest to him; he'll inform you.

Enter Ludovico.
Countess.
Brave Ludovico!—But that woeful look,
In such a moment of unhoped-for triumph!
Is the brave being safe who hath preserved us?

Lud.
Alas! e'en as we shouted at the fall
Of proud Tortona, conquer'd by his arm;
E'en as he stoop'd to soothe his dying foe,
The hateful caitiff drew a hidden dagger
And plunged it in his breast.

Countess.
Alas, alas! and is his life the forfeit
Of his most gen'rous aid!
O lead me to him! let me thank and bless him,
If yet his noble mind be sensible
To words of gratitude.

Lud.
They bring him hither. He himself desired
That they should bear him to your presence. See!
With sad slow steps they come.

Enter soldiers bearing the hermit on a low bier, and set him down near the front of the stage. The Countess stands in woeful silence till he is placed, and then throws herself at his feet, embracing them.
Countess.
Devoted, generous man! Heav'n's blessed minister!
Who hast, to save us from impending ruin,
Thy life so nobly sacrificed; receive,—
While yet thy soul hath taste of earthly things,—
Receive my thanks, my tears, my love, my blessing;
The yearning admiration of a heart
Most grateful! Generous man, whoe'er thou art,
Thy deeds have made thee blood and kindred to me.
O that my prayers and tears could move thy God,
Who sent such aid, to spare thy precious life!

Hermit
(uncovering his head, and discovering the face of Garcio).
Margaret!

Countess.
My Garcio!
[Throwing her arms round him for some time, then raising herself from the bier, and wringing her hands in an agony of grief.
This is my wretched work! Heaven was his judge,
Yet I, with cruel unrelenting sternness,
Have push'd him on his fate. O Garcio, Garcio!

Gar.
Do not upbraid thyself: thou hast done well:
For no repentance e'er could make me worthy
To live with thee, though it has made me worthy
To die for thee.

Countess.
My dear and generous Garcio!
Alas, alas!

Gar.
O calm that frantic grief!
For had my life been spared, my dearest Margaret,
A wand'ring banish'd wretch I must have been,
Lonely and sad: but now, forgiven by thee,—
For so my heart assures me that I am,—
To breathe my parting spirit in thy presence,
For one who has so heavily offended,
Is a most happy end. It is so happy
That I have faith to think my deep contrition
Is by my God and Judge accepted now,
Instead of years of wretchedness and penance.
Be satisfied and cheer'd, my dearest wife!
Heaven deals with me in mercy.
Where is thy hand? Farewell, a long farewell!

Soph.
See, he revives, and strives to speak again.

Gar.
Could I but live till I have seen my child!
It may not be: the gripe of death is here.
Give him my dying love. [Dies.
[Curtain drops.

THE PHANTOM:

A MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Dunarden, Highland chief.
• Malcolm, his son.
• The Provost of Glasgow.
• Claude, his son.
• Crawford, friend of Claude.
• Graham.
• Allen, Culloch, and other Highlanders.
• Sexton, servants, and other inhabitants of Glasgow.

WOMEN

• Alice, daughter of the Provost of Glasgow.
• Marian, daughter of Dunarden.
• Jessie, attending on Marian.
• Bride, bridemaids, housekeeper, &c.

Scene, in the Western Highlands of Scotland, and afterwards in the city of Glasgow.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A green lawn, surrounded with rocks, and mountains seen in the distance. An assembly of Highlanders are discovered, holding bridal revelry: bagpipes playing, and a noise of voices heard, as the curtain draws up.
Enter Allen.
1st high.
Welcome, brave Allen! we began to fear
The water-kelpy, with her swathing arms,
Had drown'd thee at the ford.

2d high.
Faith did we, man! thee and thy shelty too.

Allen.
Am I so late? There's time enough, I hope,
To foot a measure with the bonnie bride,
And maidens too.—'Tis well I'm come at all:
I met the ill-eyed carline on my way.

1st high.
And suffer'd scath by her?

Allen.
Ay, scath enough:
My shelty, in the twinkling of an eye,
Became so restive, neither switch nor heel
Could move him one step further.

2d high.
And so you were obliged to come on foot.

Allen.
What could I do? It was not with the beast
I held contention, but the evil spell
Of that untoward witch.—Ay, but for that,
I would defy the wildest four-legg'd thing
In all Lochaber so to master me!

1st high.
Well, well; the pipes are playing merrily,—
Make up lost time as fleetly as thou canst.

Allen.
And so I will; for here are rosy partners,
Ribbon'd and cockernonied, by my faith!
Like very queens. They make, here as I stand,
Each garter'd leg to thrill, and toes to tickle.
[Seizing one of a group of girls, advancing from the dancers at the bottom of the stage.
Come, winsome Jean! I'll have a reel with thee.
Look not so coy: where did I meet thee last?
We have not had a merry-making here
Since Duncan Mory's latewake.

Jean.
Say nought of latewakes here, I warn you well:
Wot ye who is the bridesmaid?

Allen.
Some gentle dame, belike.

Jean.
Some gentle dame!
Dumbarton Mary, with her Lowland airs.

Allen.
Ay! she that look'd so stern, and said it was
A savage thing, or some such word as that,
To dance at old Glenlyon's funeral.—
But, could the laird himself have raised his head,
He with his ivory stick had rapp'd her pate
For marring with her mincing gentleness
The decent bravery of his last rouse.—
Come, let us have a merry reel together.

[They mix with dancers, who now advance to the front, where a bumpkin, or dance of many interwoven reels, is performed; after which the bride is led to a seat, and some of her maidens sit by her.
Bridegroom.
Now, while the bride and bonnie maidens all
Take needful rest, we'll pass the cheering cup.
And, Rory of Glenoruch, clear thy throat,
And sing some merry song, meet for a wedding,
Where all are boon and gay.

Bride.
O, never mind for that! give us the song
Which thou wast wont on Clachen braes to sing,
And we to praise. Thou knowst the song I mean.

Rory.
On bridal day the bride must be obey'd:
But 'tis a song devised for gentle-folks,
Made by the youthful laird of Ballamorin,
And not for common clansfolk like ourselves.

Bride.
But let us have it ne'ertheless, good Rory;
It shows how sweetly thwarted lovers meet
O' moonlight nights, and talk of happy times
Which fortune has in store for faithful hearts:
The silliest moorland herd can follow that.

Rory.
Then be it as you please: I'll do my best.

Enter Culloch.
Allen.
Ha! our young chief must be return'd, for here
Comes Culloch, with his staring freckled face.

Omnes
(gathering round Culloch).
Well, man, what are thy news? where hast thou been?

Cul.
We've been at Glasgow.

1st high.
Glasgow! Save us all!

Allen
(half aside to 1st high.).
I doubt it not: his master, I hear say,
Goes oftener there than his good father wots of;
Ay, or his sister either. I suspect
There is some dainty lady—

1st high.
Hush! say nothing.

Allen.
And so, brave Culloch, thou hast travell'd far:
And what is Glasgow like?

Cul.
Like all Drumleary craigs set up in rows,
And chimneys smoking on the top of them.
It is an awful sight!

1st high.
And what sawst thou besides the craigs and chimneys?

Cul.
There be six kirks,—I told them on my fingers;
And, rising from the slates of every kirk,
There is a tower, where great bells ring so loud,
That you might hear them, standing on this sward,
Were they on great Benlawers.

1st high.
Tut! tut! thy ears are better than thy wits.

Bride.
And sawst thou any silken ladies there,
With all their bravery on?

Cul.
Ay, ladies, gentlemen, and red-coat soldiers,
And plaided drovers, standing at the cross,
As close as heather stalks on Hurroch moss.
Ah! well I trow it is an awful place!

Allen
(aside as before).
And well I trow the chief has business there
He wishes no observer to discover,
When he, of all the idle household loons,
Took such an oaf as Culloch to attend him.
But I'll e'en go, before he join the dance,
And have a private word of him, to favour
My poor old mother in her ruin'd cot.
I know full well he will not say me nay,
Though the old laird himself be cold and close.

1st high.
Go, then, and speed thee well!

[Exit Allen.
Bridegroom.
Hear, bonnie lassies! the young laird himself
Will soon be here, and foot it with you featly.

Old woman.
O, bless his comely face! among you all
There is not one that foots the floor like him,—
With such a merry glee and manly grace!

Bridegroom.
We'll have no further dancing till he come.
Meantime, good Rory, sing another song;
Both bride and maidens like thy chanting well:
And those who list may join the chorus rhyme.

Re-enter Allen, snapping his fingers, and footing the ground, as he speaks.
Allen.
I've seen him, sirs; I have had words of him.

1st high.
Had words of whom?

Allen.
Of the young laird himself.

Omnes.
Hast thou? and is he coming to the green?

Allen.
He bade me say he'll join you in the evening.

Omnes.
And not till then?

Allen.
Some strangers have arrived.
And I have seen them too: the lady's mounted
Upon a milk-white nag; and o'er her saddle
A scarlet cloth is spread, both deep and wide,
With bobs and fringes deck'd right gallantly;
And in her riding gear she sits with grace
That might become the daughter of a chief,
Ay, or the king himself.

1st high.
Perhaps it is the Glasgow provost's daughter,
Who is, as they have said, the very match
That our old laird is planning for his son.

Allen.
Ay, he may plan, but love will have its way,—
Free, fitful love thinks scorn of prudent planning.
No, young Dunarden went not to the town
With simple Culloch for his sole attendant,
To see the provost's daughter.

Bride
(to Allen).
And so he will not join us till the evening?

Allen.
No, damsels; but here are ribands for the bride,
And for you all, which he has sent by me.
Now they who have the nimblest hands among you,
Will catch their favourite colours as they fly. [Pulls out ribands from his pouch, and dances about in a whirling figure to the bottom of the stage, strewing about pieces of ribands, while the girls follow, to catch them as they fall.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The hall in the tower of Dunarden.
Enter Dunarden and Marian.
Dun.
(speaking as they enter).
In sooth, she well may grace a noble mansion,
Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince,
Albeit her veins swell not with ancient blood.
If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him,
He must be ill to win. And by my faith!
Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady,
To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits,
So frequent and so long, have been devoted.

Marian.
Ah, no! I fear another has his heart,—
His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think
Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides.

Dun.
And if it should be so, will nothing please him
But the top-flower of beauty and perfection?
The second best, methinks, ay, or the third,
Where fortune gilds the prize, might suit him well.
Why dost thou shake thy head?

Marian.
What might be, and what is, stand far apart,
When age and youth on the same objects look.

Dun.
Was I not young, when, of thy grandsire's daughters,
I chose the fairest, and was plainly told
Her heart and hand were promised to another?
But did I then perversely mope and pine?
No, I trow not: I clear'd my cloudy brow,
And woo'd the second fairest, thy poor mother.

Marian.
So will not he.

Dun.
Why so: belike he will not,
If thou abet his folly, as, methinks,
Thou art inclined to do.

Marian.
No, father; not inclined: I shall regret
As much as you, if any prepossession
Prevent him from approving this fair maid,
Who is, indeed, most gentle and engaging.

Dun.
Out on thy prepossessions! Younger sons,
Who may be soldiers, sailors, drovers, ay,
Or tinkers if they will, may choose a mate
With whom, o'er sea or land, through burgh or city,
To scour the world. But for the elder born,
Who must uphold the honours of the race,—
His ancient race,—he is not thus at liberty
To please a youthful fancy.

Marian.
But yet, dear sir, you may be ignorant—

Dun.
What! am I ignorant? Do I not know
The world sufficiently to guide and counsel
Those through whose body my own blood is flowing?
Not many men have had more opportunity
To know men and their ways, and I have turn'd it
To some account; at least I fain would think so.
I have been thrice in Edinburgh, as thou knowest,
In London once, in Glasgow many times;
And I, forsooth, am ignorant!

Marian.
Dear father!
You would not hear me out: I did not mean
That you were ignorant of aught belonging
To worldly wisdom; but his secret heart,
As I have said before, his prepossessions—

Dun.
And what has he to do with prepossessions?
He is, of all men, bound to wed for wealth,
Since he, with his unceasing liberalities,
Would bare me to the quick. No tacksman dies,
But he must have appointed for his widow
A house, with right of browsing for her goats,
And pasture for a cow, all free of charge.
The bedrid carlines, too, and orphan brats,
Come all on me, through his petitioning;
And I, God help me! have been weak enough
To grant such suits too often.

Marian.
You will not say so on your dying day.

Dun.
For that, indeed, it may be well enough;
But for our living days, I needs must say,
It doth not suit at all.—If he were frugal,
And would with care lay up what is our own,
Having some hoarded store, he might more reasonably
Indulge his prepossessions, as you phrase it.

Marian.
Nay, be not angry with him.

Dun.
Angry with him!
Such want of reason would provoke a saint!
Is he to spend the rents with open hand,
Stretch'd out to all who need, or all who ask;
And please himself besides, by an alliance
With some slight May, who brings but smiles and bloom
To pay the yearly charges of her state?

Marian.
We do not know her yet, and cannot say
That she is poor.

Dun.
But we may shrewdly guess.
Else why those stealthy visits,—this concealment?
Oh, 'tis provoking! This, our Provost's daughter,
Is just the match that would have suited us,—
That would support our house, and clear our lands,
And he, forsooth!—I'll cast him from my favour!

Marian.
I know you will not.

Dun.
Lady Achinmore,
If he persist, I'll say and do it too.
His prepossessions truly! mighty plea!
Supported, too, by Lady Achinmore.

[Walking in wrath to the other end of the hall.
Marian
(aside).
I'll hold my tongue, and let the storm subside;
For when he calls me Lady Achinmore,
Reply is worse than useless.

Dun.
(returning).
Methinks the lady tarries in her chamber.

Marian.
To lay aside her travelling attire,
And put her robe or fashion'd mantua on,
Requires some time.

Dun.
And where is Malcolm? Surely he should be
In readiness, for very decency,
To bid a stranger lady welcome here.

Marian.
He will appear ere long, and is, perhaps,
Attending on her brother.

Dun.
No, he is not.
I saw young Denison walk forth alone,
As if to look for him.

Marian.
Here comes the lady.

Enter Alice.
Dun.
Ah, gentle lady! were I half the man That once I was how many years gone by We shall not say), you should to this poor hold,—
To these old walls which your fair presence brightens,
A rousing welcome have. But times are changed,
And fashion now makes all things dull and spiritless.

Alice.
My welcome, as it is, gives me such pleasure,
I will not think of what it might have been.
Your daughter has received me with a kindness
That has already freed me from restraint,
And given me courage to express my pleasure.

Marian
(to her).
Thanks to thee, gentle friend!
so may I call thee,
Knowing so well thy worth. Might we retain thee
Some weeks beneath our roof, then we might boast
That our poor welcome had not miss'd its aim.

Dun.
Some weeks! We'll try to turn those weeks to months,
And then, who knows but that our mountain soil
May e'en prove warm enough for Lowland flow'r
Therein to flourish sweetly.

Alice.
Thanks, noble sir; but we must go tomorrow.

Dun.
So soon! the daughter of my early friend
Beneath my roof, seen like a Will o' th' wisp,
Glancing and vanishing! It must not be.
Were I but half the man that once I was,
I'd fight thy stubborn brother hand to hand,
And glaive to glaive, but he should tarry longer,
Or leave his charge behind him.

Alice.
Nay, blame him not: it was his own good will
That made him from our nearest homeward route,
Though press'd for time, start these long miles aside,
To pay his father's friend a passing visit;
For Malcolm, he believed, was still in Glasgow,
So rumour said.

Dun.
I thank his courtesy;
But, if my name be Fergus of Dunarden,
Neither the morrow, nor next morrow's morrow
Shall see thee quit my tow'r. I'll go and find him,
And tell him thou thyself art captive here,
Though others be in thraldom of thy beauty,
And shalt not be released.

[Exit.
Marian.
Thou seest how gallantly old hearts will warm
At sight of winning youth. He almost woos thee:
And yet I would not pay a stepdame's duty,
Where I would rather yield a sister's love.

Alice.
These words of kindness! Oh, you will undo me
With so much kindness!

[Bursts into tears.
Marian.
Dear, gentle creature! Have I given thee pain?
I have unwittingly—

Alice.
Done nought amiss.
I have a silly weakness in my nature:
I can bear frowning coldness or neglect,
But kindness makes me weep.

Marian.
And can it be that coldness or neglect
Should e'er be thine to bear?

Alice.
Better than I have borne it.

Marian.
Better than thou! In all your stately city,
Is there a lady fairer than thyself?

Alice.
Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature
Whose beauty changes every other face
To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels;
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones
Of every other voice intruding harshness.

Marian.
And if there be, conceit will mar it all;
For too much homage, like the mid-day sun,
Withers the flower it brightens.

Alice.
It may be so with others, not with her.

Marian.
Thou lovest her, then?

Alice.
O, yes! I love her dearly;
And if I did not, I should hate myself.
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep
In saying that I love her, aught lurks here,
Begrudging her felicity. O, no!

Marian
(taking her hands affectionately).
Sweet Alice! why so moved?

Alice.
'Tis my infirmity: I am a fool,
And should not go from home, so to expose
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.

Marian
(embracing her).
Come to my bosom; thou hast but exposed
That which the more endears thee to my heart;
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less.
But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.

Alice.
Thy brother?

Marian.
No; thine own,—thy brother Claude.
Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.

Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice composes herself, and endeavours to look cheerful.
Mal.
Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland mountains!
Which, as your brother tells me, you admire,
In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.

Alice.
He tells you true: our fertile Lowland dales,
With all their crofts and woodlands richly chequer'd,
Have less variety than their bare sides.

Mal.
Yes, when fleet shadows of the summer clouds,
Like stag-hounds on the chase, each other follow
Along their purple slopes; or when soft haze
Spreads o'er them its light veil of pearly grey,
Through the slight rents of which the sunshine steals,
Showing bright colour'd moss and mottled stones,
Like spots of polish'd beauty,—they appear
Objects of varied vision most attractive.

Alice.
Then, to behold them in their winter guise,
As I have never done!

Mal.
You might then see their forms enlarged and dark,
Through the dim drapery of drifted rain,
Like grim gigantic chieftains in array,
Bidding defiance to approaching host;
Or lifting their black shoulders o'er the mass
Of volumed vapour gather'd round their base,
Which seem like islands raised above the earth
In purer regions of the firmament.

Alice.
And then how sweet the bushy glens between them,
Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks, and streams
Course on their wimpled way with brawling din!

Mal.
Where low-roof'd cots, with curling smoke are seen,
Each with its little stack of winter fuel,
And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near;
And groups of hardy imps, who range at will,
Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats
Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting
Among the yellow broom.

Claude.
Pray thee have done, good Malcolm; thou wilt fill
This girl's fancy with romantic visions,
Which may, perhaps, make the rich, fertile fields
Of her own country seem insipid things.

Marian
(to Claude).
One thing, you would observe, he hasomitted
In the description of his bonnie glen,—
The cottage matron, with her cumbrous spade,
Digging the stubborn soil; and lazy husband
Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door,
Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge.

Mal.
Well, freely I confess our mountain matrons
In useful virtues do excel their mates;
And in what earthly region is it otherwise?

Claude.
I dare not contradict thee, and be deem'd
Ungallant for my pains.

Enter a Servant, who delivers a packet to Claude.
Alice.
Is it from Glasgow?
Is there within the cover aught for me?

Claude.
There is a letter with thy name upon it.

[Malcolm withdraws some paces from her.
Alice.
Which, ne'ertheless, thou keepest to thyself,
With eyes intently fix'd upon the writing.
Is it a stranger's hand to thee unknown?

Claude
(giving the letter).
No, not unknown.

Alice.
It is from Emma Graham (to Marian)
, and with your leave,
I'll read it by this window.

[Turns round, and starts upon finding Malcolm close to her.
Marian.
Why do you start?

Alice.
I knew not he was near me.

Mal.
(in confusion).
I crave your pardon: 'twas unwittingly;
I scarcely know myself why I return'd.

[Alice opens the letter, whilst Claude and Malcolm stand gazing anxiously on her as she reads it to herself.
Mal.
(to Alice, who seems to have come to the conclusion).
Your friends are well, I hope; all's well in Glasgow?

Alice.
She says a deadly fever rages there,
And nought is seen along their dismal streets
But funeral processions; nothing heard
But death-bells tolling, and the hammer's sound
Nailing in haste the corse's narrow house.

Mal.
(agitated).
And she herself amidst this wreck of life!

Alice.
She is, ere this, removed from the contagion;
For these concluding lines inform me plainly,
That she and all her family were prepared
To leave the town upon the following day
To that on which her letter has its date.

Mal.
(eagerly).
I thank thee, Alice.

Claude
(peevishly).
Wherefore dost thou thank her?

Mal.
(haughtily).
Whate'er thou hast a right to ask of me
Shall have its answer.

Marian
(to Claude).
When Highland pride is touch'd, some lack of courtesy
Must be excused. You have not from this window
Admired the falling of our mountain stream.

[Leads him to the bottom of the hall, and detains him there in apparent conversation.
Mal.
(in a softened voice).
So, gentle Alice, thou'rt in friendship knit
With Emma Graham! and meet companions are ye!
[Looking closer to the letter, which she still holds open in her hand.
Forgive me; Lowland ladies far surpass,
As fair and ready scribes, our mountain maids:
I ne'er before saw lines by her indited.

Alice
(putting it up hastily; then hesitating, then recovering herself.)
No; why should I withhold it from thine eye;
For still the sweet expressions from her pen
Excel the beauty of its characters.
[Gives it to him.
Peruse it then (aside, as she turns from him)
while I peruse myself.

Mal.
(returning the letter, after having read it).
Thou art in tears, sweet Alice; has thy mind
Some boding apprehensions for her safety?

Alice.
No, God forbid! I have a feeble body,
The worn-out case of a more feeble mind,
And oft will weep for nothing. Heed me not

Mal.
No, say not so: thy mind and body both
Are lovely yoke-fellows, and will together—
God grant it be so!—hold their prosp'rous course
For many years.
(Seeing her endeavours to speak.)
Strive not to answer me;
This wish, though most sincere, deserves no thanks.

Enter Dunarden, followed by Servants, carrying dishes of meat, &c.
Dun.
Come, honour'd guests, the first dish of our meal,
Poor though it be, is passing to the board;
Shall we not follow it? Although, in verity,
I am ashamed that such a poor reception
Is offer'd to such friends.

Marian.
Dear sir, they will forgive what things are lacking,
The heart's kind cheer not being of the number.

Dun.
(to Alice).
Had I had timely notice of your coming,
I had sent messengers for thirty miles,
Cross moor and mountain, to invite our neighbours;
And tables had been cover'd in this hall,
Round which we should have held a merry feast.
And this same wedding, too, detains the clan:
So that our wings are clipt on every side.

Alice.
Your courtesy is great: but surely, sir,
A merry wedding well may make amends
For a lost feast, e'en in Dunarden hall.

Dun.
And so it shall, fair Alice.—Pardon me
That I should be so bold to name you thus!
At fall of eve we'll join their merriment;
And thou shalt be my partner in the dance.
[Taking her hand gallantly.
I'll have thee all and solely to myself;
Unless, perhaps, if these old legs should fail,
Thou wilt accept of this young Highlander
[Pointing to Malcolm.
To be my substitute.—Come, gentles all!
By this soft lily hand let me conduct
The daughter of my old and honour'd friend;
My trysted partner too. Aha! aha! [Leading off Alice gaily with a strathspey step.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A lobby or entrance-room, with fire-arms, swords, and fishing-tackle hung on the walls. Servants are seen passing to and fro with plaids and bundles of heath in their hands.
Enter Housekeeper.
House.
Make all the speed ye may: in the long chamber
There must be twenty bed-frames quickly set,
And stuff'd with heather for the tacksmen; ay,
And for their women, in the further room,
Fourteen besides, with plaidings for them all.
The wedding folks have broken up their sport,
And will be here before we are prepared.

Enter the Butler.
Butler.
And what are twenty beds, when all the drovers,
And all the shieling herdsmen from Bengorach,
Must have a lair provided for the night.

House.
And who says so?

Butler.
E'en the young laird himself.

House.
'Tis always so; Dunarden's courtesy,
With all his honied words, costs far less trouble
Than young Dunarden's thoughtless kindness doth.
The foul fiend take them all! Have we got plaids
For loons like them!

Butler.
Faith, we at least must try to find them bedding.

House.
Let each of them find on the green hill sward
The breadth of his own back, and that, I trow,
Is bed enough for them. Herdsmen, indeed!
[Several servants coming all about together.
More plaids! more plaids! we have not yet enow.

Another servant.
An Elspy says the gentlefolks must have
Pillows and other gear.

House.
Out on you! clamouring round me with your wants,
Like daws about the ruin'd turret! think ye
That I—I am distracted with you all!

Butler
(aside).
And with some cups of good Ferntosh besides.

House.
Howe'er the shieling herdsmen may be lodged,
I have provided for the Lowland strangers
Right handsomely.

Butler.
The bed of state, no doubt, is for the lady,
And for the gentleman the arras chamber.

House.
Thou art all wrong: the arras is so ragged,
And bat holes in the cornice are so rife,
That Lady Achinmore bade me prepare
His lodging in the north side of the tower,
Beside Dunarden's chamber.

Butler.
They leave the house to-morrow, waiting only
To take a social breakfast. My best wine
And good Ferntosh must be upon the table,
To which the beef, and fish, and old ewe cheese
Will give a relish. And your pretty playthings
Of china saucers, with their fairy cups,
In which a wren could scarcely lay her egg,—
Your tea-pot, pouring from its slender beak
Hot water, as it were some precious drug,
Must be, for fashion's sake, set in array
To please the Lowland lady.

House.
Mind thy concerns, and I will look to mine.
My pretty playthings are in daily use,
As I hear say, in the great town of Edinburgh;
And 'tis a delicate and wholesome beverage
Which they are filled withal. I like, myself,
To sip a little of it.

Butler.
Dainty dear!
No doubt thou dost; aught stronger would offend thee.
Thou wouldst, I think, call rue or wormwood sweet,
Were it the fashion in your town of Edinburgh.
But, hark! the bridal folks are at the door;
We must not parley longer.
[Music without.
I hear their piper playing the “Good-night.”

Enter Allen.
Butler.
They are at hand, I hear: and have ye had
A merry evening, Allen?

Allen.
That we have.
Dunarden danced with that sweet Lowland lady,
As though it made him twenty years the younger.

House.
Dunarden! Danced she not with young Dunarden,
Who is, so says report, her destined husband?

Allen.
Yes; at the end, for one dull reel or two
They footed it together. But, believe me,
If this rich Provost's daughter be not satisfied
With being woo'd by substitute, which homage
The old laird offers her abundantly,
She'll ne'er be lady of this mansion; no,
Nor of her many, many thousand marks,
One golden piece enrich Dunarden's house.

House.
Woe's me! our Malcolm is a wilful youth!
And Lady Achinmore would dance with Claude?

Allen.
She danced with him, and with the bridegroom also.

House.
That, too, would be a match of furtherance
To the prosperity of our old house.

Butler.
But that she is a widow, and, I reckon,
Some years his elder, it might likely be.

House.
And why should that be such a mighty hindrance?

Allen.
Fie, butler! dost thou utter, in such presence,
Disqualifying words of age and widowhood?

House.
You are mislearn'd and saucy, both of you.—
But now they are at hand.

SONG without, of several voices.
House.
We've listened here too long: go all of you
And get the rooms prepared! My head's distracted!

[Exeunt all, different ways.

SCENE IV.

A bed-chamber.
Enter Alice and Marian, with a Servant before them, carrying lights.
Marian.
You must be tired with all this noisy merriment
So closely following a lengthen'd journey.

Alice.
To be among the happy and the kind
Keeps weariness at bay; and yet I own
I shall be glad to rest.

Marian.
And may you find it, sound and undisturb'd!
There is among our household damsels here,
A humble friend of yours, the child of one
Who was your father's servant.

Alice.
Ha! little Jessie, once my playfellow,
And since well known to me, as the attendant
Of a relation, in whose house I found her,
Some two years past: a gentle, faithful creature.

Marian.
The same, she will attend upon you gladly,
And do what you require. See, here she is.

Enter Jessie.
Alice.
Jessie, my old acquaintance! I am glad
To find thee thus, domesticated happily
In such a home. I hope thou hast been well,
Since I last met with thee.

Jessie.
I thank you, madam;
I am right well; and, were I otherwise,
To see you here would make me well again,

Marian
(to Alice).
The greatest kindness I can show thee now
Is to retire, and leave thee to prepare
For what thou needst so much.
[Kissing her.
May sweet sound sleep refresh thee! Oh! it grieves me
To think that we must part with thee so soon;
And that ye are determined to return
To that infected city.

Alice.
Be not afraid for us. We shall pass through it,
And only tarry for an hour or two.
Good night, and thanks for all your gentle kindness!
Thanks, in few words, but from my inmost heart!
[Exit Marian.
And thou art here, good Jessie. I am glad,—
Right glad to see thee; but I'm tired and spent,
And (take it not unkindly) cannot speak
As I was wont to do.

[Throws herself into a chair, whilst Jessie begins to uncoil her hair, and take out the ornaments.
Jessie.
I will prepare you for your bed, dear madam,
As quickly as I can. To-morrow morning
Your strength and spirits too will be restored.

Alice.
Thou'rt a good creature. Dost thou still remember
The pretty songs thou used to sing so sweetly?

SONG. Jessie (singing gaily).
Alice.
I thank thee: that was once a favourite song.
I know not how it was; I liked it then
For the gay reckless spirit of the tune.
But there is one which I remember well,
One my poor aunt was wont to bid thee sing;
Let me have that, I pray thee.

Alice.
Thou singest sweetly, ay, and sadly too,
Even as it should be sung. I thank thee, Jessie.

Jessie
(after having entirely undone her hair, and taken the fastenings from other parts of her dress).
Now, madam, let me fetch your gown and coif.

Alice.
I want no further service, my good Jessie,
I'll do the rest myself: and so, good night;
I shall be soon in bed. Good night, and thanks.

Jessie.
Not yet good night; I will return again,
And take away the light.

Alice.
Well; as thou wilt: but leave me for a while.
[Exit Jessie.
This day, with all its trials, is at length
Come to an end. My wrung and wrestling heart!
How is it with thee now? Thy fond delusions
Lie strew'd and broken round thee, like the wrecks
Of western clouds when the bright sun is set.
We look upon them glowing in his blaze,
And sloping wood, and purple promontory,
And castled rock distinctly charm the eye:
What now remains but a few streaky fragments
Of melting vapour, cold and colourless?
[After a thoughtful pause.
There's rest when hope is gone—there should be rest.
And when I think of her who is the cause,
Should I complain? To be preferr'd to her!
Preferr'd to Emma Graham, whom I myself
Cannot behold but with an admiration
That sinks into the heart, and in the fancy
Goes hand in hand with every gentle virtue
That woman may possess or man desire!—
The thought was childish imbecility.
Away, away! I will not weep for this.
Heaven granting me the grace for which I'll pray
Humbly and earnestly, I shall recover
From this sad state of weakness. If she love him,
She'll make him happier far than I could do;
And if she love him not, there is good cause
That I should pity him; not selfishly
On my own misery dwell.—Ay, this should be;
But will it be?—Oh, these rebellious tears!

[Covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself back in her chair, in a state of abandonment.
Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the phantom of a beautiful young woman, which advances a few paces, and then remains still.
Alice
(raising her face).
Who's there?—Is there true vision in mine eyes?
[Rising quickly, and going with open arms towards the phantom.
Dear Emma! dear, dear Emma! how is this,
That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour,
So many miles from home? Alas! that face
Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look
Of sad solemnity!—Speak to me quickly;
I dare approach no nearer, till I hear
Words of thy natural voice. Art thou alive?

Phantom.
A term, short as the passing of a thought,
Hath brought me from the chamber where my friends
Are now lamenting round my lifeless body.

Alice.
And 'tis thy spirit which before mine eyes
Thy body's semblance wears: and thou art nothing
That mortal hands may touch or arms encircle!
O look not on me with that fixed look!
Thou lovest me still, else thou hadst not been here,
And yet I fear thee.

Phantom.
Fear me not, dear Alice!
I yearn'd to look upon thee ere I pass
That gulf which parts the living from the dead:
And I have words to utter which thine ear
Must listen to, thy mind retain distinctly.

Alice.
Say what thou wilt; thou art a blessed spirit.
And canst not do me harm.—
I know it well: but let thy words be few;
The fears of nature are increasing on me.
[Bending one knee to the ground.
O God! Lord of all beings, dead and living!
Strengthen and keep me in this awful hour!

Phantom.
And to thy fervent prayer I say, Amen.
Let this assure thee, that, though diff'rent natures
Invest us now, we are the children still
Of one great Parent; thou in mortal weeds
Of flesh and blood; I in a state inexplicable
To human comprehension.—Hear my words.

Alice.
I listen most intently.

Phantom.
The room in which I died, hath a recess
Conceal'd behind the arras, long disused
And now forgotten; in it stands a casket,
The clam shell of our house is traced upon it;
Open, and read the paper therein lodged.
When my poor body is to earth committed,
Do this without delay. And now, farewell!
I must depart.

Alice.
Ah! whither, dearest Emma? Will a moment
Transport thee to heaven's court of blessedness,
To ecstasy and glory?

Phantom.
These are presumptuous words. My place, appointed
In mercy to a weak and sinful creature,
I soon shall know. Farewell, till we shall meet,
From sin, and fear, and doubt, released for ever!

[Exit.
[Alice stands trembling and gazing, as the phantom disappears, and then falls on the ground in a swoon. Presently re-enter Jessie.
Jessie.
Mercy upon us! lying on the ground!
Life is not gone; God grant it be not so!
Lady, dear lady! No; she does not hear.

[Endeavours in vain to raise her, then runs off in great alarm, and is heard without, knocking and calling at the door of another chamber.
(Without.)
Open the door! Rise, Lady Achinmore.
Marian
(without).
I am not yet undress'd: what is the matter?

Jessie
(without).
Come to the lady's chamber: follow me.

Mal.
(without, opening the door of his apartment).
What has befallen? Is any one unwell?

Re-enter Jessie, followed by Marian, who both run to Alice, raising her from the floor, and one supporting her head, while the other chafes her temples and the palms of her hands, &c.
Marian.
Support her drooping head, while from my closet
I fetch some water, and restoring drugs,
Whose potent smell revives suspended life.

Mal.
(looking in upon them from the door).
O leave her not! I'll find whate'er is wanting.

[Exit.
Marian.
There is a little motion of her lip;
Her bosom heaves: thank God! life is not fled.
How long hadst thou been absent from the room?

Jessie.
Some little time; and thought, on my return,
To find her gone to bed.

Marian.
How was she when thou leftst her?

Jessie.
She was well then.

Marian.
It hath been very sudden.

Re-enter Malcolm, with phials, &c.
Mal.
(applying herbs to her nostrils, while Marian pours out essence from the phial, and rubs her temples and hands).
Life is returning; she is laid uneasily;
Let me support her on a stronger arm.
[Taking her from Marian, and supporting her.
There's motion on her lips, and on her eyelids.
Her eyes begin, through their soft raven lashes,
To peer like dew-drops from the harebell's core,
As the warm air of day by slow degrees
The closed leaves gently severs.—Yes; she moves.
How art thou now, sweet Alice?

Marian.
See, she looks up, and gazes on us too;
But, oh, how strangely!

Mal.
Why do her eyes thus wander round the chamber?
(To Alice.)
Whom dost thou seek for, Alice?

Alice.
She's gone; I need not look; a mortal eye
Shall never, never look on her again.
[A peal of thunder heard.
Hear ye that sound? She is upon her way.

Marian.
What does she mean? It was a sultry night,
And threaten'd storm and lightning.

Mal.
(to Alice).
Thou'st been asleep, and scarcely yet art waking,
Thy fancy is still busied with its dream.

Alice
(raising herself more, and looking towards the place where the phantom disappeared).
It was no dream: upon that spot it stood;
I saw it,—saw it for a lengthen'd time,—
Saw it distinctively.

Mal.
Whom didst thou see?
No living creature could have enter'd here.

Alice.
O would that it had been a living creature!
Her beauty was the beauty of a corse
Newly composed in death; yet her dark eyes
Were open, gazing wistfully upon me.

Mal.
(hastily withdrawing his arms from her, and clasping his hands together in agony).
Thou hast seen Emma Graham!

Alice
(rousing herself).
Is Malcolm here? I am confused,—bewilder'd;
I know not what I've seen, or what I've said:
Perhaps it was a dream.

Mal.
It was no dream;
Or if it was, 'twas one of sad import.
Oh, if it be!—there is distraction in it.

[Tossing his arms, &c.
Marian.
Dear brother! such wild gestures of despair
For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain!

Mal.
It was not sleep from which we have revived her.

Marian.
And grant it were not, swooning, I've been told,
Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep.

Alice.
I was not well; I have been long unwell;
Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain;
Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon.
Be not so miserable, gentle Malcolm!
O that this vision did foretell my death,
If she were well and happy!

Mal.
Forgive me, dearest Alice! O, forgive me!
When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself.

[Taking both her hands, which he presses to his lips.
Marian.
Leave us, dear brother! go to thine apartment.

Mal.
I'll go where yearning nature urges me.
[Going, then returning again to Alice.
And didst thou hear her voice?

Enter Claude.
Claude.
Is Alice well? I heard a busy noise.
How art thou, sister?

Alice.
I have had a swoon,
But am recover'd from it. Go to rest.
[Aside to Marian and Malcolm.
Say nothing of the vision. O, be silent!

Mal.
(aside to himself, as he goes off).
Is he so much concern'd? No, no, he is not:
He does not,—cannot feel what tortures me.

Claude.
Dost thou avoid me, Malcolm? Dost thou think
That kindness to my sister can offend me?

Mal.
I've other thoughts, which do no wrong to thee,
And owe thee no account.

[Exit.
Claude
(aside).
He is offended.
(Aloud to Marian.)
Thanks to you, dear madam!
For your kind care of Alice. Rest, I hope,
Will perfectly restore her. The fatigue
Of her long journey, and the evening pastime
Has been too much for one so delicate.
(To Alice.)
Undress and go to bed, poor harass'd creature!
I trust to-morrow thou wilt wake refresh'd.

Alice.
I hope so too, dear Claude; and so good night.
Remain no longer here. (Exit Claude.)
I'm glad he's gone.
[Apeal of thunder as before.
That awful sound again! she's on her way:
But storm or thunderbolt can do no harm
To disembodied spirits.

Marian.
I may not leave thee here, my gentle friend;
In my apartment thou shalt pass the night.
Come then with me: I dare not leave thee here,
Where, sleeping or awake, thou hast received
Some painful shock—Rise: lean upon my arm.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A rudely paved court, with a low building in front. The stage perfectly dark, and thunder heard at a distance.
Enter Malcolm, who goes to the door of the building, and knocks.
Mal.
Ho! Culloch! art thou waking? Rouse thee, Culloch!
I hear him snoring in his heavy sleep,
Press'd with the glutton feasting of the day.
[Knocking louder than before.
Canst thou not hear? Holla! ho! rouse thee, Culloch!
The heavy sluggard! Ha! he's stirring now.

[Laying his ear close to the door.
Cul.
(within).
Who's there?

Mal.
It is thy master.

Cul.
What is wanted?
It is not morning yet.

Mal.
That drawling voice!
He is not yet awake. Very loud.)
Rise, man, immediately:
Open the door, and do what I desire thee.
[To himself, after a short pause.
Six hours upon my gallant steed will end
This agony of doubt.—I'll know my fate—
Joy or despair.—He is asleep again.
[Knocking as before.
Make haste, make haste, I say! inert and sluggish!
O that, like spirits, on the tempest borne,
The transit could be made! Alas! alas!
If what I fear hath happen'd, speed or stillness,
Or day or midnight,—every circumstance
Of mortal being will to me be nothing.
Not ready yet!—Ha! now I see the light.
[Light seen from the window.
Six hours of my brave steed, and if my fears
Are then confirm'd—forgive me, noble creature!
We'll lay our burdens down and die together. Enter Culloch slowly from the building, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding a candle in the other.

Haste, tardy creature! art thou sleeping still?

Cul.
What is your honour's will? O hone! O hone!
It is a murky night.

Mal.
I know it is.
Unlock the stable door, and saddle quickly
My gallant Oscar.

[Thunder again.
Cul.
Does your honour hear it?

Mal.
Hear what?

Cul.
The thunder growling o'er Benmore:
And that was lightning too that flared so fleetly:
The welkin's black as pitch.

Mal.
And let it growl; and be the welkin pall'd
In sackcloth! To the spot where I am going
We'll find the way by instinct.—Linger not:
Do what I have desired thee instantly.

Cul.
Ay, ay! the saddle upon Oscar's back.
The bran new saddle would your honour have?

Mal.
Yes, fool, and set about it instantly.
[Exit Culloch.
These dark and heavy bodings of my mind
Come from no natural bent of apprehension.
It must be so. Yet, be it dream or vision,
Unmeaning chance, or preternatural notice,
As oft hath been vouchsafed, if living seers
Or old tradition lie not,—this uncertainty
Ere morning dawn would drive my brain distracted,
Were I inactively to wait for day;
Therefore, to horse!
[Thunder louder than before.
That sound is in accordance with the storm
In this perturbed breast. Is it not ominous
Of that which soon shall strike me to the dust,
A blasted lonely remnant?—
Methinks he should ere this—time flies apace;
The listless sluggard must be urged to hasten
His so unwilling task.

[Exit hastily.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The cross of Glasgow. A great crowd of people are discovered, and bells heard tolling occasionally from the neighbouring churches.
1st crowd.
Ah! woe is me! so bonnie and so young!
Of all that death hath ta'en in this fell ravage,
None hath he ta'en that seem'd so ill to suit
The coffin and the mould. Ah! woe is me!

2d crowd.
Ay, neighbour, she was one mark'd from them all.
Though we have many fair and gracious ladies,
We had not one who could be pair'd with her:
The bonniest lass in all the west of Scotland.

1st crowd.
Ay, thou mayst say, the bonniest and the best.

3d crowd.
Nay, softly, David! for the point of goodness,
That is a matter, on her burial day,
We may not question; yet, if it be true—

1st crowd.
If it be true! It is not: nought is true
That can throw speck or spot upon her virtue.

1st crowd woman
(to 1st crowd).
Be not so angry, man; my husband means
Against her maiden virtue no reproach,
E'en if her faith was papishly inclined.

1st crowd.
She was no Papish; I'll take oath upon it.
The cloven foot of Satan in my shoe
Is at this point of time as surely buckled,
As that she was aught but a pure believer—
A good and godly lady.

1st crowd woman.
That gentleman, so brave and soldierly,
Who lately has return'd from foreign wars,
Is a rank Romanist, and has been oft
Received by her. But, Lord preserve us all!
We, by God's grace, may sit by Satan's side,—
Ay, on the self-same settle, yet the while,
Be ne'er one whit the worse.

3d crowd.
And I should guess—

2d crowd.
Hist, hist! the funeral's coming:
I hear the heavy wheels, and o'er the top
Of all those cluster'd heads I see the feathers,—
The snow-white feathers of the high-coped hearse
Move slowly. Woe the day! oh, woe the day!
How changed her state! She was on milk-white steed
Mounted right gallantly, with cap and plume,
When I beheld her last.

Voice
(without).
Make way, good folks, and let the ladies pass.

2d crowd
(to him without).
None can pass here on horseback.

Voice
(without).
It is the Provost's family: make way.

2d crowd
(as before).
An 'twere the king's, they must dismount, I trow,
Or wait till the procession be gone by.

Enter Alice, Marian, and Claude.
Claude
(to crowd).
What makes so great a concourse; and those bells
To toll so dismally? Whose funeral
Are ye convened to see?

1st crowd.
Ah, sir! the fairest lady of the place.
I warrant you have seen her many a time;
They call'd her Emma Graham.

Claude.
It cannot be! What didst thou call her? Speak;
Repeat her name.

1st crowd.
Her name is Emma Graham; her father is—

Claude.
No more! no more! too well I comprehend it.
And death hath dealt his blow on what was life's
Completest, dearest, best.

[Covers his face with his cloak.
Marian
(turning to Alice, and supporting her).
Dear Alice, thou art pale, and faint, and ill;
Lean upon me, my friend.

Alice.
Think not of me: poor Claude! my heart-struck brother!
His wound is deep and sudden: for this stroke
I was prepared.

Voices
(without).
Stand back; stand closer: it is now at hand.

[A funeral procession crosses the stage: the mourners following the hearse on foot.
1st crowd.
Ah! never corse was follow'd to the grave
With deeper sorrow!

1st crowd woman.
Ay, tears are following tears down manly cheeks,
As gouts fall in Saint Mungo's dripping aisle,
Near which the grave is dug that shall receive her.

1st crowd.
That is her grey-hair'd father, so bow'd down;
And those her brothers walking by his side.

2d crowd.
Then all the kindred walking, two and two.

3d crowd.
But who is he that follows after all,
In mourner's cloak so muffled to the eyes?
He walks alone, not mated like the rest;
And yet, methinks, his gait and motion say
The greatest weight of grief falls to his share.

Claude.
God knows who hath the greatest share! Not he.

[Pushing eagerly through the crowd.
Alice.
Where goest thou, Claude?

[Endeavouring to hold him.
Claude.
Prevent me not. Shall mourning weeds alone
Have privilege, and sorrow be debarr'd.

[Exit hastily after the funeral, and the crowd disperses different ways, Alice, Marian, and their servants alone occupying the front of the stage.
Marian.
Dear Alice! how thou tremblest every limb,
As in an ague fit!

Alice.
It was no dream;
It was no strong delusion of the fancy.

Marian.
This is indeed an awful confirmation.
But stay no longer here: go to thy home;
Thou hast great need of rest.

Alice.
I have more need,
Within my closet, on my bended knees,
To pray for mercy on my sinful self,
And those to me most dear,—poor sinners all.
This is a sad and awful visitation.

Marian.
But didst thou not expect to find it so?
I thought thou wast prepared.

Alice.
I thought so too;
But certainty makes previous expectation
Seem, by comparison, a state of hope.

Marian.
We now are free to hold upon our way.
Let us proceed: come on with me, dear Alice!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The house of the provost, and the apartment of Claude, who enters, followed by Crawford, and throws himself back into a chair with the action of deep distress.
Claude.
Follow me not, my friend; it is in vain
That friendly soothing would assuage my grief.

Craw.
Grieve not for that which is, indeed, most grievous,
Beyond all measure.

Claude.
Can we measure grief,
And say, so much of it shall be my portion,
And only this? A prudent, lesson'd sorrow,
Usurps the name it bears.—She was the light
That brighten'd every object; made this world
A place worth living in. This beauteous flame
Hath in the socket sunk: I am in darkness,
And no returning ray shall cheer my sight.
This earth, and every thing that it contains,
Is a dull blank around me.

Craw.
Say not so!
It grieves my heart to hear thee. Say not so.

Claude.
I will not grieve thee then; I'll hold my tongue;
But shall I feel the less?—Oh, had she lived!

Craw.
Perhaps she had but caused thee greater sorrow;
For how wouldst thou have brook'd to see her hand,
Had it so been, bestow'd upon another?

Claude.
Why should I entertain a thought so painful?
[Raising his head proudly, after a thoughtful pause.
Yes, I can entertain it, and believe
That, even as another's, it were happiness
To see her yet alive; to see her still
Looking as never eyes but hers did look;
Speaking such words as she alone could speak,
Whose soften'd sounds thrill'd through the nerves, and dwelt,
When heard no more, on the delighted fancy,
Like chanted sweetness!—All is now extinct!—
Like some base thing, unmeet for mortal eye,
The sod hath cover'd all.
[After a thoughtful pause.
Hath cover'd all!

Craw.
Dear Claude! why wilt thou dwell on things so dismal?
Let me read to thee from some pious book;
Wilt thou permit me?
[He remains silent and thoughtful.
Dost thou hear me, Claude?

Claude
(muttering to himself, without attending to Crawford).
The sexton has the key; and if he had not,
The wall may yet be clear'd.—
The banded mourners scatter to their homes,
Where kinsfolk meet, and social hearths blaze bright,
And leave the grave in midnight loneliness!
But should it be?

Craw.
(listening to him).
I understand these words.
But if he go, he shall not go alone.

Enter a Servant.
Claude
(impatiently).
What brings thee here?

Serv.
A gentleman desires to see you, sir.

Claude.
Tell him I am gone forth.—Such ill-timed visits!
Is the sore heart a sear'd and harden'd thing
For every fool to handle?

[Exit.
Craw.
I'll follow him: he should not be alone.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A large room, with rich furniture, and the walls hung with pictures.
Enter the Provost and Marian, by different doors.
Provost.
How is poor Alice?

Marian.
She is more composed;
For tears have flow'd uncheck'd, and have relieved her.
I have persuaded her to take an hour
Of needful rest upon her bed; and Jessie,
That kindly creature, watches her the while.

Provost.
Ay, that is right. And now, my right good lady,
Let me in plain but grateful words repeat,
That your great kindness, leaving thus your home,
And taking such a journey for the comfort
Of my poor child, is felt by me most truly,
As it deserves. May God reward you for it!

Marian.
I will not, sir, receive such thanks unqualified;
They are not due to me. Regard for Alice,—
And who that knows her feels not such regard,—
Was closely blended with another motive,
When I determined on this sudden journey.

Provost.
Another motive!

Marian.
Has not Claude inform'd you
That Malcolm left Dunarden secretly,
The night before we did ourselves set forth?

Provost.
He has not. Ha! and wot you where he went?

Marian.
I wot not, but I guess: and it was he,
As I am almost confident, who walk'd
The last of all the mourners, by himself,
In this day's sad procession.

Provost
(pulling a letter hastily from his pocket).
Madam, sit down; I'll cast mine eyes again
O'er this your father's letter. Pray sit down!
I may not see you thus.
[Setting a chair with much courtesy, and obliging her to sit, whilst he goes aside and reads a letter earnestly. He then returns to her.
My friend has many words of courtesy;
It is his habit; but subtracting from them
The plain unvarnish'd sense, and thereto adding
What, from this secret journey of your brother,
May be inferr'd,—the real truth is this—
At least it so appears to my poor reason—
[Preventing her as she rises from her seat.
Nay, sit, I pray you, Lady Achinmore;
We'll talk this matter over thoroughly,
And leave no bashful doubts hid in a corner,
For lack of honest courage to produce them.

[Sits down by her.
Marian.
Proceed, good sir, I listen earnestly.

Provost.
As it appears to me, the truth is this,
That Malcolm, whom your father doth admit,
Albeit a great admirer of my daughter,
To be at present somewhat disinclined
To give up youthful liberty so early,
As he from more acquaintance with her virtues
Ere long will of his own accord desire,—
(Pointing to the letter)
—so he expresses it.

Marian.
And with sincerity.

Provost.
Well, grant it, lady!
The truth doth ne'ertheless appear to be,
That this young gallant, Malcolm of Dunarden,
With all her virtues, loves not Alice Denison,
And loves another.

Marian.
Rather say, hath loved.

Provost.
I'll not unsay my words. His heart is with her,
Low as she lies: and she who won his heart
From such a maid as Alice Denison,
Will keep it too, e'en in her shroud. No, no!
We've spread our vaunting sails against the wind,
And cannot reach our port but with such peril
As will o'ermatch the vantage.

Marian.
Say not so.
Time will make all things as we wish to have them.

Provost.
Time works rare changes, which they may abide
Who are intent upon them. Shall I carry
My vessel where her cargo is not wanted?—
Tobacco to th' Antipodes, and wait
Till they have learn'd to use and relish it?—
Shall I do this, when other marts are near
With open harbours ready to receive her?

Marian.
Dear sir, you must not think I will assent
To what would mar the long and cherish'd wish
Of me and mine. And we had fondly hoped
That you had been desirous of this union
Between our families.

Provost.
Your father won my friendship years ago,
When with his goodly mien and belted plaid,
His merry courtesy and stately step,
He moved amongst our burghers at the Cross,
As though he had been chieftain o'er us all;
And I have since enjoy'd his hospitality,
In his proud mountain hold.

Marian.
I recollect it: proud and glad he was
Of such a guest.

Provost.
Dost thou? Ay, then it was,
That, seeing his fair stripling by his side—
A graceful creature, full of honest sense
And manly courage—I did like the notion,
That Alice, then a little skipping child,
With years before her still to play about me,
Should in some future time become the lady
Of that young Highland chief. But years bring thoughts
Of a more sober and domestic hue.
Why should I covet distant vanities,
And banish from my sight its dearest object?
(Rising from his chair.)
Have you observed those pictures?

Marian
(rising also).
I have. They are the portraits of your parents:
Their features bear resemblance to your own.

Provost.
My mother's do: and look at her, dear madam!
With all the bravery of that satin dress
Clasp'd up with jewels, and those roses stuck
Amongst her braided hair, she was the daughter
And sober heiress of a saving burgher,
Whose hoarded pelf in my brave father's hands
Raised such industrious stir in this good city,
As changed her from a haunt of listless sluggards
To the fair town she is. What need have I
To eke my consequence with foreign matches?
Alice shall wed, I hope, some prosperous merchant,
And live contentedly, my next door neighbour,
With all her imps about her.

Marian.
Wed whom she may, I hope she will be happy.

Provost.
I do believe that is your hearty wish:
And having plainly told you what I think
Of this projected match, as it concerns
My daughter and myself,—I will proceed
To that which may concern my ancient friend.
Should any mortgage press on his estate,
Or any purchase of adjoining lands
Make money a desired object with him,
He need but speak the word; at easy int'rest
He shall receive what sums he may require,
And need not fear that I shall e'er distress him
With hard ill-timed demands. In faith, he need not!

Marian.
Dear sir, he knows full well your gen'rous heart
Hath for its minister a liberal hand:
In truth, he would not fear to be your debtor.

Provost.
Not all the rum and sugar of Jamaica,
In one huge warehouse stored, should make me press him,
Though apt occasion offer'd e'er so temptingly.
Then why should Malcolm bend his youthful neck
To wedlock's yoke for sordid purposes?
The boy shall be my friend; and when his mind
Is free to think upon another love,
I'll guide him to a very comely lady—
Yea, more than one, that he may have a choice—
Who may prove both a match of love and profit;
But hear you plainly, not to Alice Denison.

Marian.
Oh, you are kind and noble! but my father—

Provost.
Say nought for him; he'll answer for himself:
And through his maze of friendly compliments,
I'll trace at last his veritable thoughts.
[Taking her hand kindly.
Now, having thus so plainly told my mind,
Look on me as a man to whom again
You may as freely speak.

Marian.
And so I will:
The happiness of one, dear to us both,
Requires that I should do it.

Provost
(surprised).
How so? is it of Alice you would speak?

Marian.
Yes, but another time; for here comes Jessie. Enter Jessie.
(To Jessie.)
How is she now? I hope she is asleep.

Jessie.
She has not slept, but lies composed and easy,
And wishes now to see you.

[Exit Marian.
Provost.
How art thou, Jessie?

Jessie.
Well, an' please your honour.

Provost.
I hear thou hast become a Highland lass;
But, if thou really like the Lowlands better,
Thy native country, tell me honestly:
I'll make thy husband, whomsoe'er thou choose,
A freeman of this town. If he have brains,
And some few marks beside, he'll thrive upon it.

Jessie.
I thank you, sir: his marks are few indeed.

Provost.
Well, never mind; let us but have the brains,
And we will make the best of it.—Poor Jessie!
I well remember thee a barefoot girl,
With all thy yellow hair bound in a snood:
Thy father too.

Jessie.
Do you remember him?

Provost.
Yes, Saunders Fairlie. Better man than Saunders
In factory or warehouse never bustled.

Enter Servant.
Provost.
What is the matter, Archy? On thy face
Thou wearst a curious grin: what is the matter?

Serv.
The baillie bid me to inform your honour,
The country hucksters and the market wives
Have quarrell'd, and are now at deadly strife,
With all the brats and schoolboys of the town
Shouting and bawling round them.

Provost.
Good sooth! whene'er those wives with hands and tongue
Join in the fray, the matter must be look'd to.
I will be with them soon.
[Exit servant.
To think now of those creatures!
E'en at the time when death is in the city
Doing his awful work, and our sad streets
Blacken'd with funerals, that they must quarrel
About their worldly fractions! Woe is me!
For all our preachings and our Sabbath worship,
We are, I fear, but an ungodly race. Enter another Servant.

And what has brought thee, too?

Serv.
There is a woman come from Anderston,
Whose neighbour, on pretence of some false debt,
Has pounded her milch cow,—her only cow.

Provost.
Is that a case to occupy my time?
Let her go with it to the younger baillie.

Serv.
I told her so, your honour, but she weeps,
And says the younger baillie is so proud,
She dare not speak to him.

Provost.
Poor simpleton! Well, then, I needs must see her. Re-enter 1st Servant.

Tut! here again! What is the matter now?

1st serv.
A servant all cross'd o'er wi' livery lace,
As proud and grand as any trumpeter,
Is straight from Blantyre come, and says, my lord
Would greatly be obliged, if that your honour
Would put off hearing of that suit to-morrow,
As he must go to Edinburgh.

Provost.
Tell the messenger
To give my humble service to his lordship,
And say, I could not, but with great injustice
To the complaining party, grant delay,
Who, being poor, should not be further burden'd
With more attendance; I will therefore hear
The cause to-morrow, at the hour appointed. Exit 1st, and re-enter 2d Servant.

Still more demands! For what foul sin of mine
Was I promoted to this dignity?
From morn till eve, there is no peace for me.

[Exit Provost, speaking to the servants as they go out.

SCENE IV.

Before the walls of a churchyard, a narrow iron gate at the bottom of the stage, behind which the gleaming of a torch is faintly seen; the front of the stage entirely dark. Solemn music is heard, as the scene opens.
Enter a Sexton, with keys, followed by Claude and Crawford.
Claude.
Music! and from the spot! what may it be?

Sexton.
Leave was requested that a solemn dirge
Should be this night sung by some grave; but whose,
Or e'en by whom requested, I am ignorant.
Some Papist, like enough: but what of that?

Craw.
(to sexton).
How many graves thou'st made in one short week!
Thou hast been busy in thy sad vocation.

Sexton.
I have, good sooth, and knew it would be so,
A month before the fell disease began.

Craw.
How knew it?

Sexton.
He, the sighted man from Skye,
Was in the town; and, at the crowded cross,
Fell into strong convulsions, at the sight
Which there appear'd to him.

Craw.
What did he see?

Sexton.
Merchants, and lairds, and deacons, making bargains,
And setting trystes, and joking carelessly,
Swathed in their shrouds; some to the very chin,
Some breast-high, others only to the loins.
It was a dismal, an appalling sight;
And when I heard of it, I knew right well
My busy time was coming.

Claude
(to sexton, impatiently).
Didst thou say
That leave has been requested for a dirge
To be this night sung by some Papist's grave?

Sexton.
Papist or not I cannot surely say,
I ask'd no questions.

Craw.
Having cause, no doubt,
To be well satisfied no harm would ensue.

Sexton.
No harm. In this retired nook it cannot
Annoy the living; and for the departed,
Nought can disturb their rest.

Craw.
Hast thou not heard of restless souls returning?
Perhaps thou'st seen it, during thirty years
In which thou hast been sexton of this parish.

Sexton.
In all that time I ne'er could say with certainty
That aught of such a nature pass'd before me;
But I have seen uncertain shadows move
As 'twere confusedly, and heard strange sounds,—
Stranger than wind or natural cause could utter.

Craw.
And thou wast sure they were unnatural sounds?
And hast thou heard them often?

Sexton.
Many times:
But that was in the first years of mine office.
I am not now alarm'd: use makes me feel
As if no harm could e'er befall the sexton:
And e'en my wife will in dark winter nights
Enter the church alone and toll the bell.

Craw.
And ne'er has been alarm'd by any sight
Of apparition or unearthly thing?

Sexton.
Yes; she was once alarm'd.

Craw.
(eagerly).
And what appear'd?

Sexton.
It was, as nearly as I can remember,
Upon a Friday night—

Craw.
(quickly).
Ne'er mind the night: what was it that she saw?

Sexton.
Nay, she herself saw nothing; but the dog
That follow'd her bark'd briskly, then stopp'd short,
And, with a kind of stifled choking howl,
Look'd in her face, then cower'd by her side,
Trembling for fear; and then right well she knew
Some elrich thing was near her, though its form
Was only visible to the poor brute.

Craw.
You think the dog saw something.

Sexton.
Certes did he!
And had he not been dumb, he could, no doubt,
Have told a tale to set our hair on end.

Claude
(who, during their discourse, has been pacing to and fro impatiently, to sexton).
You know not who it was?

Sexton.
The Lord preserve us, sir! for she saw nothing.

Claude.
What dost thou mean? Couldst thou not guess, at least,
Who 'twas who made request to chant the dirge?

Sexton.
Ay, ay! the dirge. In truth I cannot say.
It was a man I never saw before.

Claude
(eagerly).
Stately, and of a stature somewhat taller
Than middle size, of countenance somewhat younger
Than middle age?

Sexton.
No; short, and grave, and ancient, like a priest
From foreign parts.

[Music sounds again.
Craw.
Be still and hear the dirge.

DIRGE sung by several voices without.
Claude
(seeing the light disappear).
They are all gone at last: unlock the gate.
[The sexton applies the key, but in vain.
Canst thou not open it? what is the matter?

Sexton.
I've brought a key made for another gate;
Woe worth my stupid head!

Claude.
I'll climb the wall.

Sexton.
Be not so very hasty, please your honour.
This key unlocks the southern gate: I pray you
To follow me, and you will soon have entrance.
Woe worth my stupid head!

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The churchyard, near the walls of St. Mungo's church, which occupies the bottom of the stage. A newly covered grave is dimly seen near the front; the stage darkened, but not entirely so; a degree of light, as from a new-risen moon in a cloudy night, showing objects imperfectly.
Enter Malcolm, who bends over the grave for some time in silence.
Mal.
And here beneath this trampled sod she lies,
Stiffen'd and cold, and swathed in coffin-weeds,
Who, short while since, moved like a gleam of brightness,
Lighting each face, and cheering every heart.
Oh, Emma, Emma Graham, is this thy place?
Dearer than thou a lover's soul ne'er worshipp'd;
Fairer than thou a virgin's robe ne'er wrapt;
Better than thou a parent's tongue ne'er bless'd.
Oh, Emma Graham, the dearest, fairest, best!
Pair'd with thee in the dance, this hand in thine,
I've led thee through the whirl of mazy transport,
And o'er thy chair have hung with wistful ear,
Catching thy words like strains of melody,
To be with fancy's treasures stored for ever.
I've waited near thy portal many an hour,
To see thy hasty transit from its steps
To the grim gaping coach, that seem'd to swallow,
Like a leviathan, its beauteous prey.
And now alas! I come to seek thee here!
I come to seek thee here, but not to find.
This heart, which yearns through its ribb'd fence to break
Into the darken'd cell where thou art laid
In Nature's thraldom, is from thee divided
As by a gulf impassable. Oh, oh!
So short a time! such fearful, sad transition!
My day is turn'd to night; my youth to age;
May life to death be the next welcome change!
[Throws himself on the grave in a burst of sorrow.
Sweet love, who sleepst beneath, canst thou not hear me?
Oh, if thou couldst! Alas! alas! thou canst not!
[After a pause, and half-raising himself from the grave.
But is it well, and is it holy, thus,
On such a sacred spot, to mourn the dead,
As lost and perish'd treasure? God forgive me!
The silver lamp, with all its rich embossments
Of beauteous workmanship, is struck and broken,
But is the flame extinguish'd? God forgive me!
Forgive a wretched and distracted man,
And grant me better thoughts!—The unclothed spirit
In blessed purity hath still existence.
Perhaps, in its high state is not unconscious
Of what remains behind; perhaps, beholds
The very spot. Oh, if she does! her pity—
Her pity, yea, her love now rests upon me.
Her spirit, from the body newly freed,
Was in my father's house, ere it departed
To its celestial home; was it not sympathy?
O! Emma, Emma! could I surely know
That I was dear to thee, a word,—a token
Had been to me a cherish'd, rich possession,
Outvaluing all that martial chiefs contend for
On their embattled fields.—Ha! who approaches? Enter Claude.

Come not, I warn thee, near this sacred spot.

[Springing up from the ground.
Claude.
A sacred spot, indeed! but yet to all
Who loved in life the dead whom it contains,
Free as the house of God.

Mal.
I say it is not.
In this, her first night of the grave, the man
Who loved her best when living, claims a right
To watch the new-closed tomb, and none beside.

Claude.
Then yield to me that right, for it is mine;
For I have loved her longest,—long ere thou
Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name.

Mal.
'Tis not the date, but potency of love
Which bears account: I say, approach no nearer.

Claude.
Must I endure such passion? Frantic man!
Are we not both in grief smitten to the earth?
May we not both weep o'er this sacred spot,
Partners in wretchedness?

Mal.
Away, away! I own no partnership;
He who hath spok'n such word hath thereby proved
The poorness of his love. Approach no nearer.
I'll yield my heart's blood rather than resign
This my sad eminence in widow'd sorrow.

Claude.
Dar'st thou to hinder me?

Mal.
I dare and will.

[They grapple fiercely.
Enter Crawford.
Craw.
(separating them.)
For shame! for shame! to hold contention here!
Mutual affliction should make friends of foes,
Not foes of friends. The grave of one beloved
Should be respected e'en as holy ground,—
Should have a charm to smother all resentment.

Mal.
And so it should, and shall.—Forgive me, Claude;
I have been froward in my wretchedness.

Claude.
And I, dear Malcolm, was to blame, so suddenly
To break upon thy sorrow.

Craw.
The provost hath despatch'd a messenger
Upon our track, who found me out e'en now,
Requesting both of you to give your presence
On an occasion solemn and important.

Claude.
What may it be?

Craw.
Within the late apartment of the dead,
Your sister has a duty to perform,
Enjoin'd her by the dead. And 'tis her wish
That ye should both be present.

Claude and Mal.
(together).
We will obey her shortly. Go before us.

[Exeunt Crawford and Malcolm; and Claude, after bending in silence for a few moments over the grave, follows them.

SCENE VI.

An apartment, the walls of which are lined with oak, and partly hung with arras.
Enter a Maid Servant, carrying a lamp and a basket, &c.
Maid
(speaking as she enters).
I trow, when we have burnt this second parcel,
The sickly air must needs be purified.
But what does all this fuming signify,
Since we must die at our appointed time?
What dost thou think—
(looking round and seeming alarmed)
—She has not follow'd me.
I thought she was behind me. Lord preserve us!
Here in this ghastly chamber all alone!
[Going to the door and calling.
Art thou not coming. Marjory? Where art thou?
I say, where art thou? I have need of thee.

Enter a 2d Maid.
2d maid.
Why didst thou call so loud? What is the matter?

1st maid.
I thought thou wast behind me: merey on us!
A kind of qualm came o'er me, when I look'd
On all within this silent dismal room,
And to that corner where the death-bed stood,—
A sudden qualm came o'er me.

2d maid.
Let us be busy—there's no time to lose;
The provost and his daughter will be here
Ere we have done our work.

[They take gums and dried herbs from the basket, which they set fire to by the lamp, and fumigate the chamber, speaking the while occasionally.
1st maid.
The Lord preserve us! 'tis an awful thing.

2d maid.
It was a sudden call: so young,—so good!

1st maid.
Ay, many a sore heart thinks of her this night.

2d maid.
And he, the most of all, that noble gentleman:
Lord pardon him for being what he is!

1st maid.
And what is that?

2d maid.
A rank and Roman papist.

1st maid.
The Lord forgive him that, if it be so!—
And quickly, too; for this same deadly fever,
As I hear say, has seized upon him also.

Enter Provost.
Provost.
That's well, good damsels; you have done your task
Right thoroughly: a whelesome, fragrant smell
Is floating all about. Where is your master?

1st maid.
In his own chamber. When he knows your honour
Is in the house, he will attend you presently.

2d maid.
And it will do him good to see your honour.

Provost.
I fear, my joe, the good that I can do him,
Or e'en the minister, if he were here,
Would be but little. Grief must have its time.
Some opiate drug would be to him, I reckon,
Worth all my company, and something more.
Howbeit, I'll go to him. My good old friend!
My heart bleeds for him.—Ye have done enough;
The ladies are at hand.

[Exit by the opposite side.
Enter Alice and Marian.
Marian.
Take hold of me; thy summon'd strength, I fear,
Forsakes thee now.
[She supports Alice, and they walk slowly to the middle of the room.
Ay, thou lookst round, as if in search of something?

Alice.
They have removed it.

Marian.
What have they removed?

Alice.
The bed on which she lay. Oh, woe is me!
The last time I was in this chamber, Marian,
Becoming suddenly, from some slight cause,
A passing sufferer, she laid my head
On her own pillow, and her own soft hand
Press'd me so gently; I was then the patient,
And she the tender nurse. I little thought
So short a time—Alas! my dear, dear friend!

Marian.
Short time indeed for such a dismal change:
I may not chide thy tears.

Alice.
Here are the virginals on which she play'd;
And here's her musie, too.
[Taking up a book from the virginals, and opening it.
Ah, woe is me!
The very tune which last she play'd to me
Has open'd to my hand, and 'twixt the leaves
The little flower lies press'd which then I gave her!

Marian.
'Tis sweet to find it so.

Alice.
But, oh! how sad!
She was—she was—
[Bursting into tears.
Well may I weep for her!

Marian.
Be comforted, dear Alice! she is gone
Where neither pain nor woe can touch her more.

Alice.
I know—I know it well: but she is gone!
She who was fair, and gifted, and beloved:
And so beloved!—Had it been heaven's blest will
To take me in her stead, tears had been shed,
But what had been their woe, compared to this?

Marian.
Whose woe, dear Alice?

Alice.
His woe—their woe; poor Claude's, and Malcolm's too.
Death seizes on the dearest and the best!

Marian
(embracing her).
I will not hear thee say so, gentle Alice.
A dearer and a better than thyself
'Twere hard to find. No; nor do I believe
That she whom thou lamentest did surpass thee.

Alice.
Hush! say it not!—I pray thee, say not so:
In pitying me thou must not rob the dead.
That he preferr'd a creature of such excellence,
Took from the wound its sting and bitterness.
Thou mayst not wrong the dead!

Marian.
I will not, then,

Alice
(looking round).
There is the arras that conceals the place:
Her awful words are sounding in my ears,
Which bade me search. I feel a secret awe!
But that her spirit from the earth has ta'en—
As I am well assured—its final leave,
I could believe that she is near me still,
To see the very act!

[Looking round her fearfully.
Marian.
Nay, check thy ardent fancy: 'tis not good
To let such dismal notions haunt thee so—
Thy father comes, with his afflicted friend.

Enter Provost, leading Graham by the hand.
[Alice advances affectionately to Graham, who opens his arms to receive her, and she weeps upon his neck, without speaking. She then leads him to a chair, and seats herself upon a stool at his feet, taking his hand in hers, and bending over it, while the Provost and Marian remain in the front.
Provost
(looking at them).
That poor old man! he utters not a word
Of sorrow or complaint; and all the more
I grieve for him. God help him! in whose hands
The hearts of men are kept.

Marian.
And he is help'd, for he is weeping now.

Provost.
He did not weep when we for him were weeping,
And he will weep when all our tears are dried.
—Our two young men, methinks, are long of coming.

Marian.
But are you sure your messenger hath found them?

Provost.
I scarcely doubt it. I have those in pay,
But little better than the prey they follow,
Who are expert in dogging stealthy rogues;
And it were strange indeed if artless men
Should foil their skill.—
And I am right—I hear their coming steps!

Enter Malcolm and Claude.
Mal.
(after doing silent obeisance to the Provost and Graham, who, with Alice, come forward to meet them, speaks in a low voice to Claude).
And here, night after night, in all her beauty,
She took her curtain'd rest, and here she died!
But that which I expected is not here:
Is this the very chamber?

Alice
(overhearing him, and in a low voice).
It is: but what thou lookst for is removed.
(Pointing.)
Upon that spot it stood.

Mal.
Yes, thou hast read my thought, most gentle Alice!

[Goes to the spot, where he remains in silence, covering his face with his hands.
Provost.
Shall we not now proceed upon the business
For which we are convened?
(To Graham.)
To you, my ancient friend, I have explain'd it.
Malcolm and Claude, know ye why in this chamber
Your presence has been solemnly requested.

Claude.
I guess it well. My sister has inform'd me
Of Emma's last request; and I to Malcolm,
As we came hither, have repeated it.

Provost
(to Alice).
Now, dearest child! it is for thee to act.

[Leads Alice to the bottom of the stage, where, taking aside the arras which covers the wall, a small door is discovered.
Claude
(to Malcolm, seeing him take a book from a book-case).
Why dost thou snatch that book so eagerly?

Malcolm.
It is the book I praised to her so much
A short while since; and see, she has procured it!

Claude.
Ah! thou mayst well be proud. But how is this?
Thy countenance all o' the sudden changed!
[Malcolm lets the book drop from his hand, and Claude takes it up eagerly, and opens it, reading.
“The gift of one most dear.”—Of one most dear!
Thou didst not give it to her?

Mal.
No; nor thou!

Marian.
Hush, hush! words of ungentle rivalry
Do ill become this solemn place. Be calm.
See! Alice in the cabinet hath found
That which the vision'd form so earnestly
Directed her to search for.

[Alice, returning to the front with a small box in her hands, places it on a table, the rest gathering eagerly round her, and endeavours to open it.
Alice.
I know this box: alas! I know it well,
And many a time have open'd it; but now—

Provost.
Thy hands have lost all power, thou tremblest so.
[Taking it from her and from Graham, who attempts to assist her.
Nay, friend, thou tremblest also: I will do it.

[Opens the box, and takes out a written paper.
Omnes.
What is it?

Provost.
Give me time to look upon it.

Gra.
Some deed or testament. Alas, poor child!
Had she prepared for such an early death?

Provost.
It is no testament.

Mal.
(impatiently).
What is it then?

Claude.
Nay, father, do not keep us in suspense!

Provost.
It is a formal contract of betrothment;
Vows sworn between herself and Basil Gordon.

Gra.
That popish cadet of a hostile house
To me and mine!—Let mine own eyes examine it.
Contracted secretly! to him contracted!
But she is in her grave, and I—O God!
Grant me with patience to endure Thy chastening!
Contracted! married!

Provost.
Not married; no,—a mutual solemn promise,
Made to each other in the sight of heav'n.
Thus run the words:—
(Reads.)
“I, Basil Gordon, will no woman wed
But Emma Graham.”—Then follows her engagement:—
“I, Emma Graham, will wed no other man
Than Basil Gordon: yet will never marry
But with consent of my much honour'd father,
When he, less prejudiced, shall know and own
The worth of him I love.”
[Spreading out the paper.
This is her writing, as you plainly see;
And this is Gordon's, for I know it well.

Gra.
(beating his breast).
This blow! this blow! a Gordon and a papist!

Provost.
True, he is both: the last, I must confess,
No trivial fault. Howbeit he is, in truth,
A brave and noble gentleman.

Alice.
Indeed he is, dear sir. Your gentle Emma
Could love no other. Valiant in the field,
As frequent foreign records have attested:
In private conduct good and honourable;
And loving her he loved, as he has done,
With ardent, tender constancy—

Mal.
Hold! hold!
He loved her not—by heav'n he loved her not!
When all who ever knew her, drown'd in sorrow,
Follow'd her hearse, he—he alone was absent.
Where was he then, I pray?

Provost.
I'll tell thee where:
Stretch'd on a sick-bed—smitten by the same
Most pestilent disease that slew his mistress.

Mal.
Ha! is it so!
(Turning to Claude.)
Then we must hold our peace.

Claude.
And with each other be at peace, dear Malcolm:
What is there now of rivalry between us?

Mal.
Speak not so gently to me, noble Claude!
I've been to thee so wayward and unjust,
Thy kindness wrings the heart which it should soften.
(After a pause.)
And all our fond delusion ends in this!
We've tack'd our shallow barks for the same course!
And the fair mimie isle, like Paradise,
Which seem'd to beckon us, was but a bank
Of ocean's fog, now into air dissolved!

Alice.
No; say not beckon'd. She was honourable
As she was fair: no wily woman's art
Did e'er disgrace her worth:—believe me, Malcolm.

Mal.
Yes; I believe thee, and I bless thee too,
Thou best and loveliest friend of one so lovely!
Pardon me, dearest Alice! generous Alice!
Pardon the hasty error of a word
Which had no meaning—no intended meaning
To cast one shade of blame on thy dear friend;
For henceforth by no other appellation
But thy dear friend shall she be named by me.
[Turning to Graham.
And you, dear sir! look not so sternly sad.
Her love outran her duty one short step,
But would no farther go, though happiness
Was thereby peril'd. Though his house and yours,
His creed and yours, were so at variance, still,
She might expect his noble qualities
Would in the end subdue a father's heart,
Who did so fondly love her.

Gra.
Cease! I am weak, bereft, and desolate,—
A poor old man, my pride of wisdom sear'd
And ground to dust: what power have I to judge?
May God forgive me if I did amiss!

Claude
(to Provost).
Did Gordon see her ere she breathed her last?

Provost.
He did. The nurse, who was her close attendant,
Says, that he came by stealth into her chamber,
And with her words and looks of tenderness
Exchanged, though near her last extremity.
And there he caught the fatal malady.

Claude.
A happy end for him, if it should prove so.

Enter a Servant, who draws the Provost aside.
Provost
(aside to servant).
Thou hast a woeful face! what has befallen?

[Servant speaks to him in a whisper.
Marian
(to Alice).
Thy father has received some woeful tidings.

Alice.
I fear he has; he stands in thoughtful silence.
Father, how is't? your thoughts are very sad.

Provost.
Ay; were this span of earthly being all,
'Twere sad to think how wealth and domination,
Man's valour, landed pride, and woman's beauty,
When over them the blighting wind hath pass'd,
Are turned to vanity, and known no more!

[The bell of a neighbouring church tolls five times.
Mal.
What bell is that?

Claude.
Some spirit is released from mortal thraldom.

Alice.
And passing on its way, we humbly hope,
To endless happiness.

Provost.
I trust it is, though stern divines may doubt:
'Tis Basil Gordon's knell!

[The bell tolls again at measured intervals, and, after a solemn pause, the curtain drops.

THE BRIDE:

A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Rasinga.
• Samarkoon, his brother-in-law.
• Juan de Creda, a Spanish physician.
• Samar, a child, and son of Rasinga.
• Ehleypoolie, officer of Rasinga.
• Mihdoony, officer of Rasinga.
• Officers, domestics, robbers, spearmen, &c.

WOMEN

• Artina, wife of Rasinga, and sister of Samarkoon.
• Montebesa, mother of Rasinga.
• The Bride.
• Sabawatté.
• Nurse, attendants, &c.

Scene, in Ceylon.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Before the castle of Rasinga. Enter Ehleypoolie, meeting Mihdoony and two officers of the chieftain's household.
Ehley.
Well met, my comrades! I have words for you.

Mih.
We doubt it not; thou'rt bountiful in words.

1st offi.
Thou never wast a niggard of such treasure.

Ehley.
Ay, but the words which ye shall now receive,
Are not the passing ware of daily traffic,
But such as in each list'ner's fancy wakes
Responding sounds, such, as from twisted shell
On sea-beach found, comes to the bended ear
Of wand'ring child; sounds strange and full of omen.

Mih.
What! evil omen? storms and hurricanes?

Ehley.
Fy on't! A stirring, tinkling, hopeful sound:
The ring of scatter'd largess, sweeter far
Than pipe, or chord, or chant of forest birds:
The sound of mummery and merriment:
The sound—
But wherefore stare ye on me thus?
List: I will tell you what concerns us all.

Mih.
Out with it then! for it concerns us all
To be no more tormented with thy folly.

Ehley.
Our Lord Rasinga wills, that we, brave mates,
With fifty armed followers and their followers,
Shall be in readiness by early dawn,
To march in goodly order to the mountains.

1st offi.
I like not mountain warfare.

2d offi.
No, nor I.

Mih.
To force our toilsome way through thick rank woods,
With bleeding limbs drained by a hundred leeches!

Ehley.
Fy, lazy cowards! shrink ye from adventures
Which gentle lady, in her palanquin,
Will share with you?

Mih.
A gentle lady, sayst thou?

Ehley.
Yes, ye dull dolts, I say so.—Brave Rasinga
Has with one wife, for a good term of years,
(Lulled by some charm of sorcery) been satisfied.
It is good time that he, like other chiefs,
Should have a first sultana and a second,
Or any such arrangement as becomes
His age and dignity. So, in gay trim
With our arm'd band, we by to-morrow's dawn
Must be in readiness.—These are your orders,
Sent by our lord through me.

Mih.
Who is this honour'd lady of the mountains?

Ehley.
Caust thou not guess?—The aged chieftain's daughter,
Whose petty hold was sack'd by daring robbers,
Not many weeks gone by. He and his daughter
Were dragg'd as prisoners from their ruin'd home.
In this sad plight, our chief, with Samarkoon,
The valiant brother of his present wife,
And a good strength of spearmen, met them; charged
The bootied spoilers, conquer'd and released
Their wretched prey.—And ye may well suppose
The lady's veil, amidst the strange confusion,
Could not be clutch'd so close, but that Rasinga
Might see the lovely face it should have cover'd.

Mih.
O now I understand it; for, methinks,
Rasinga had not else brought to his house
Another bride to share it with Artina.

[Samarkoon, who has entered behind them unperceived, and overheard part of the preceding dialogue, now rushes forward indignantly.
Sam.
Ye foul-tongued knaves, who so belie your master!
What words are these which ye have dared to utter?

Ehley.
My lord, I crave your pardon; I have utter'd
The orders which Rasinga charged me with,
That these (pointing to Mihdoony and officers)
should straight prepare an armed band
To take their way to-morrow for the mountains.

Sam.
To bring a bride from thence? Speak out, I charge thee,
Thou lying knave! Went not thy words thus far?

Ehley.
If they be true or lying words, I wot not.
What may within a guarded palanquin
Be from the mountains brought, I may but guess.
Perhaps some speaking bird or jabb'ring ape.

Sam.
(striking him).
Take that—and that—thou false audacious slave:
Dar'st thou to answer me with mockery? [Exit Ehleypoolie sulkily, followed by Mihdoony and officers.
Manet Samarkoon.

Base sordid reptiles! for some paltry largess
And passing revelry, they would right gladly
See peace and order and domestic bliss
To misery and wild confusion changed.
Hateful suggestions! base and vague conjectures,
That vulgar minds on slight foundation rear!
All false!—
And yet they are upon my heart
Like the compressure of a coiled boa,
Loathly, but irresistible.
A bride!
It cannot be!—although her unveil'd face
Was of surprising beauty—Oh how lovely!
Yet he bestow'd on her but frigid praise,
And still continued to repress my ardour,
Whene'er I spoke of the fair mountain maid,
With silent stern reserve.—Is this like love?
It is not natural.
Ah! but it is;
It is too natural,—deep subtle nature.
How was my idiot soul so far beguiled
That I ne'er thought of this?
Yes, yes, he loves her!
Loves her whom I so well—so dearly love,
That every female image but her own
Is from my heart effaced, like curling mists
That, rising from the vale, cling for awhile
To the tall cliff's brown breast, till the warm sun
Dissolves them utterly.—'Tis so; e'en she
Whom I have thought of, dreamt of, talk'd of,—ay,
And talk'd to, though in absence, as a thing
Present and conscious of my words, and living,
Like the pure air around me, every where.
(After a pause.)
And he must have this creature of perfection!
It shall not be, whatever else may be!
As there is blood and manhood in this body,
It shall not be!
And thou, my gentle sister,
Must thy long course of wedded love and honour
Come to such end!—Thy noble heart will break,
When love and friendly confidence are fled.
Thou art not form'd to sit within thy bower
Like a dress'd idol in its carved alcove,
A thing of silk and gems and cold repose:
Thy keen but generous nature—Shall it be?
I'll sooner to the trampling elephant
Lay down this mortal frame, than see thee wrong'd.
(After a considerable pause.)
Nay, nay! I am a madman in my rage.
The words of that base varlet may be false.
Good Montebesa shall resolve my doubts.
Her son confides to her his secret thoughts:
To her I'll go, and be relieved from torment,
Or know the worst at once.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The apartment of Montebesa.
Sabawatté is discovered at work and singing.
Enter Montebesa, as the song is concluded.
Mont.
Did I not hear thee singing, as I came,
The song my dear Artina loves to hear?

Sab.
E'en so, good lady; many a time I sang it
When first I was attendant in her bower;
Ere, at your own desire, and for my honour,
She did resign me to your higher service.

Mont.
Sing it no more: alas! she thought not then
Of its contain'd allusions to a fate
Which now abides herself.

Sab.
No, not her fate; you surely mean not so:
She is a happy wife, the only wife
Of brave Rasinga, honour'd and beloved.

Mont.
She was and is as yet his only wife.

Sab.
As yet his only wife! and think you then
She will not so continue?

Mont.
Sabawatté,
It grieves me much to tell thee what perforce
Must soon be known to all; my son Rasinga
Hath set his heart upon a younger bride,
Perhaps a fairer too.

Sab.
(eagerly).
No; not a fairer.
I'd peril life and limb upon the bet,
She is not half so fair, nor half so good.

Mont.
Be not so hasty.—Why dost thou regard it
As such a grievous thing? She has already
Enjoy'd his undivided love much longer
Than other dames have done with other lords,
And reason teaches she should now give place.

Sab.
Reason and cruelty sort ill together;
A loorie haunting with a spotted pard.
Ah! woe the day! Why have you told me this?

Mont.
Because I would upon your sadden'd brow
Print traces that may lead our poor Artina
To question thee; and thou, who art her friend,
Canst by degrees, with gentle, wise precaution,
Reveal to her what she must needs be told.

Sab.
I cannot: put not such a task on me,
I do implore your goodness!—No, I cannot.

Mont.
Hush, hush! I hear the footsteps of a man,
But not Rasinga.—It is Samarkoon;
I know his rapid tread.—Be wise; be silent;
For he awhile must live in ignorance. Enter Samarkoon, and Sabawatté retires to some distance.

A happy morning to you, youthful kinsman!

Sam.
As it may prove, good lady: happy morning
Oft leads to woeful eve, ay, woeful noon.

Mont.
These are strange sombre words; what is the matter?
Why dost thou look both sorrowful and stern?

Sam.
I have good cause, if that which I have heard
Be aught but a malignant, hateful tale,
On mere conjecture founded. Answer me,
If thou knowst nothing of a num'rous train
In preparation, by Rasinga's orders,
To fetch home to his house a fair young bride?
There's no such thing.—Speak—speak! I will believe thee;
For if to thee unknown, there's no such thing.—
[A pause, he looking inquisitively in her face.
Thou dost not speak; thou dost not answer me;
There's trouble in thine eye.—A with'ring curse
Light on his heartless heart, if this be true!

Mont.
Brave Samarkoon! thou art not wise, so fiercely
To question me of that which well may be
Without my knowledge;—that which, if it be,
Nor thou nor I have any power to alter.

Sam.
Which if it be! that if betrays an answer;
A shameful answer, shunning open words.
Dear, dear Artina! thou hast climb'd already
The sunny side of Doombra's mountain ridge
And now with one short step must pass the bounds
Dividing ardent heat from chilling clouds
With drenching mist surcharged.
So suddenly
To bring this change upon her! Cruel craft!
He knows that it will break her tender heart,
And serve his fatal purpose.

Mont.
Frantic man!
Thou art unjust, ungenerous, unwise;
For should Rasinga—no uncommon act,
Take to his princely bower a second bride,
Would not Artina still be held in honour,
Her children cherish'd, and their rank secured?

Sam.
Such honour as unfeeling worldlings give
To fall'n deserted merit, she will have;
And such security as should-be heirs,
Who stand i' the way of younger, petted minions,
Find in the house of an estranged sire,
Her children will receive. Alas, alas!
The very bonds of soul-devoted love,
That did so long entwine a husband's heart,
For her own life the cord of execution
Will surely prove. Detested cruelty!
But is it so? My head is all confusion,
My heart all fire;—I know not what thou saidst.

Mont.
Indeed, young kinsman, thou art now unfit
To hold discourse on such a wayward subject.
She whom thou lovst so dearly as a brother,
I as a mother do most truly love.
Let this suffice thee, and retire awhile,
For I expect Artina, and 'tis meet
She be not now o'erwhelm'd with thy distress.
Ha! she is here already; tripping lightly
With sparkling eyes, like any happy child,
Who bears away the new-robb'd rock-bird's spoil.

Enter Artina, gaily, with an embroidered scarf of many colours in her hand, and running up to Montebesa.
Art.
Dear mother, look at this! such tints, such flowers!
The spirits of the Peak have done this work;
Not hands of flesh and blood. Nay, look more closely.
And thou too, Samarkoon. How cam'st thou here?
I pray you both admire the beauteous gift—
Rasinga's gift—which I have just received.

Sam.
(eagerly).
Received from his own hand, so lately too?

Art.
E'en now. But did I say, from his own hand?
He sent it to me, the capricious man!
Ay, and another present, some days since,
Was also sent. Ay, so it was indeed.

Sam.
Was he not wont to bring such gifts himself?

Art.
With what a face of gravity thou askst
This most important question! Never mind:
I can devise a means to be revenged
For all this seeming lack of courtesy.

Mont.
Devise a means to be revenged! and how?

Art.
I'll dress old nurse as my ambassadress,
With robe, and veil, and pall majestical,
And she shall thank him in a tiresome speech,
(He hates her formal prosing)—that I trow,
Will cure him of such princely modes of sending
His gifts to me. But ye are wondrous grave.
What ails thee, brother? Speak, good Montebesa;
I fear he is not well.

Mont.
He is not very well.

Art.
(taking his hand affectionately).
Indeed he is not.

Sam.
(turning away his face).
A passing fit of fever has disturb'd me,
But mind it not, Artina.

Art.
Nay, nay, but I will mind it, gentle brother.
And I have learnt this morning cheering news,
Good news for thee and all sick folk beside.

Mont.
We want good news; what is it thou hast heard?

Art.
De Creda, who, by physic magical,
Did cure Rasinga of his fearful malady,
When at the point of death, is just arrived.
Where he hath been these two long years and more,
There's not a creature knows. Perhaps i' the moon,
If magic knows the way to climb so high.

Mont.
Perhaps in his own land.

Art.
Ay, certes, Europe is a wondrous kingdom,
And well worth visiting, which sends forth men
So gifted and so good.

Sam.
I pray thee say not men, but only man.
Hath it e'er sent another like to him?
Yet wherefore came he to these happier regions
With such a wicked crew?

Art.
Nay, blame him not:
His fate hath been disastrous and sad,
As I have heard him say; and, woe is me!
Misfortune is not dainty in associates.

Sam.
Associates! Solitude, in trackless deserts,
Where locusts, ants, and lizards poorly thrive,—
On the bare summit of a rugged peak,
Where birds of prey in dusky circles wing
The troubled air with loud and clam'rous din,
Were to an honest heart endurable,
Rather than such associates.

Art.
Ha! does this rouse thee so? Yet, ne'ertheless,
I'll send for him, and he will make thee well.

Sam.
I'm well if thou art so, my gentle sister.

Art.
And I am so; how canst thou doubt it, brother,
Being so loving and so well beloved.

Sam.
O yes! thou art indeed beloved most dearly,
Both thee and thine, and so shall ever be,
While life gives motion to thy brother's heart.

Art.
A brother's heart!—How so? there is a meaning,—
A meaning and a mystery in this.
Tears, too, are on my hand, dropt from thine eyes;—
O, speak, and tell the worst!

Sam.
I may not now.
I pray thee, let me go; I cannot speak.

[Breaks from her and exit. Then Sabawatté comes forward and takes hold of her robe with an action of soothing tenderness.
Art.
(to Sabawatté).
Dost thou, too, look on me with pity? Speak;
I charge thee speak, and tell the fearful cause,
Since no one else will do it.

Mont.
My dear Artina, thou shalt know the truth,
Which can no longer be conceal'd; but listen,
Listen with patience to the previous story,
And thou wilt see how fated, strange events
Have caused within Rasinga's noble heart,
E'en he who has so long and dearly loved thee,
A growing possibility of change.

Art.
If he is changed, why should I know the rest?
All is comprised in this.

[With actions of despair.
Mont.
Nay, do not wring thy hands, but listen to me.
Sit on this seat and call up strength to hear me.
Thou giv'st no heed to me; thou dost not hear.

Art.
(in a low voice, after a pause).
I'm faint and very cold; mine ears ring strangely;
But I will try to do whate'er thou wilt.
[After another pause.
There is a story then: I'll hear it now.

Mont.
Rasinga, as thou knowst, did, short while since,
A mountain chief and his fair daughter rescue
From ruffian robbers. In its youthful charms
He saw the virgin's unveiled face. Alas!
A sight so rare he could not see unmoved.
Restless and troubled, like a stricken wretch
Whom sorcery possesses, for awhile
He strove against his passion, but at length
Nature gave way; and thou mayst guess what follows.

Art.
What follows! What has followed?

Mont.
Our gates must soon receive this youthful bride;
And thou, dear daughter, must prepare thyself
To bear some natural change.

[Artina faints away in the arms of Sabawatté.
Sab.
I knew it would be so! Oh, my dear mistress!
These cruel words have dealt the fatal blow.

Mont.
Be not afraid of this infirmity,
Which, though it seems appalling, brings relief,
E'en like Niwané, when the virtuous soul
Hath run, through many a change, its troubled course.
Let us remove her gently to my couch!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The apartments of Rasinga.
He enters, followed by Ehleypoolie and Mihdoony, and is speaking as he enters.
Ras.
(to Ehleypoolie).
Thou hast done well.

Ehley.
I am not given to boasting,
Yet I must say all things are so arranged,
That never bride's array, on such short notice,
Was better order'd, or for gallant show,
Or for security.

Ras.
'Tis rich and splendid?

Ehley.
Our palanquin, with all its colour'd streamers,
Will shine above the guards' encircling heads,
Like any crested mancka, proudly perch'd
Upon the summit of her bushy knoll.

Ras.
And have ye pioneers to clear its way?

Ehley.
Ay, pioneers who through a tangled thicket
Make room as quickly as the supple trunk
Of a wild elephant; whilst forest birds,
From their rent haunts dislodged, fly up and wheel
In mazy circles, raising clam'rous cries,
And casting noon-day shadows, like a cloud,
On the green woods beneath.

Mih.
In truth, my lord, he makes it well appear
He is not given to boasting.

Ras.
(smiling).
Not a whit!
As meek and modest as a Padur's child.
And having done so much for show and speed,
Good Ehleypoolie, I will take for granted
The chiefest point of all, security,
Has not been overlook'd; for mountain robbers
May yet be lurking near some narrow pass.

Ehley.
Well, let them lurk, and burst upon us too;
'Twill be as though a troop of mowing monkeys,
With antic mimic motions of defiance,
Should front the brinded tiger and his brood.
Full soon, I trow, their hinder parts they turn,
Lank and unseemly, to the enemy,
In scamp'ring haste, to gain the nearest shelter.
It were good sport if they should dare to stand.

Mih.
You see, my lord, he is in all things perfect.

Ras.
I see it plainly. Thanks for all thy pains,
Brave Ehleypoolie.

Ehley.
Shall we take with us
The pipes and doulas that have hung so long
In the recess of Dame Artina's garden?
Of all your instruments there are not any
That sound so loud and clear.

Ras.
(sternly).
No, no! I charge thee,
Let nothing there be changed. Thy witless words
Have struck upon my heart a dismal note,
Depressing all its life and buoyancy.
Alas! my joy is like the shimm'ring brightness
Of moving waves, touch'd by the half-risen moon,
Tracing her narrow pathway on the deep:
Between each brighten'd ridge black darkness lies,
le far on either side, the wat'ry waste
Spreads dim, and vague, and cheerless.

Mih.
If such thy thoughts, dost thou repent thy purpose?

Ras.
Not so; there's ecstacy in those bright gleams;
Ay, and though cross'd with darkness black as midnight,
I will enjoy this momentary radiance. Enter a Slave, in haste.

What brings thee here with such a staring face?

Slave.
The lady's coming; she is close at hand.

Ras.
Ha! from her father's house, unsent for, come?

Slave.
No, not that lady, sir; it is Artina.

Ras.
(much disturbed).
I thought my mother would have spared me this.
Is Montebesa with her?

Slave.
No, my lord;
She has her children with her.

Ras.
Wretched moment!
The sight of them will change my strength to cowardice:
What shall I do?

Ehley.
I'll quickly run and say that you are busy,
And cannot see her.

Ras.
(pulling Ehleypoolie back as he is about to go out).
Restrain thy heartless zeal; it is most odious.
Shall she be so debarr'd from entrance here,
Whose presence was a blessing and a grace! Enter Artina, leading her youngest child, and followed by Samar, leading his little sister. Rasinga hastens to meet her, and leads her in silence to the principal seat, at the same time motioning to Ehleypoolie and Mihdoony to withdraw, who immediately leave the apartment.

Here, take this seat, Artina.

Art.
No, my lord;
I come not here to sit; I come to kneel,
As now beseems a scorn'd forsaken wife,
Who pleads with strong affection for her children:
Who pleads in painful memory of love
Which thou for many years hast lavish'd on her,
Till, in the gladness of a foolish heart,
She did believe that she was worthy of it.

Ras.
Yes, dear Artina, thou wast worthy of it!
Thou wast, and art, and shalt be loved and honour'd
While there is life within Rasinga's bosom.
Why didst thou think it could be otherwise,
Although another mate within my house
May take her place, to be with thee associated,
As younger sister with an elder born?
Such union is in many houses found.

Art.
I have no skill in words—no power to reason:
How others live I little care to know:
But this I feel, there is no life for me,
No love, no honour, if thy alter'd heart
Hath put me from it for another mate.
Oh, woe is me! these children on thy knees,
That were so oft caress'd, so dearly cherish'd,
Must then divide thy love with younger fav'rites,
Of younger mother born? Alas! alas!
Small will the portion be that falls to them.

Ras.
Nay, say not so, Artina; say not so.

Art.
I know it well. Thou thinkest now, belike,
That thou wilt love them still; but ah! too soon
They'll be as things who do but haunt thy house,
Lacking another home, uncheer'd, uncared for
And who will heed their wants, will soothe their sorrow,
When their poor mother moulders in the grave,
And her vex'd spirit, in some other form,
Is on its way to gain the dreamless sleep?
Kneel, Samar, kneel! thy father loved thee first,
In our first happy days.—Wilt thou not, boy?
Why dost thou stand so sullen and so still?

Sam.
Ne loves us not.

Art.
Nay, nay, but he will love us.
Down on thy knees! up with thy clasped hands!
Rasinga, O Rasinga! did I think
So to implore thy pity—I and mine
So to implore thy pity, and in vain!

[Sinks on the ground exhausted with agitation.
Ras.
(raising her gently in his arms).
Dearest
Artina! still most dear to me:
Thy passionate affections waste thy strength;
Let me support thee to another chamber,
More fitting for retirement and for rest.
Come also, children.—Come, my little playmates!

Sam.
We're not thy playmates now.

Ras.
What dost thou say?

Sam.
Thou dost not speak and smile and sport with us
As thou wast wont: we're not thy playmates now.

Ras.
Thou art a fearless knave to tell me so.

[Exeunt, Artina leaning on her husband, and the children following.

SCENE IV.

A retired grove near the castle of Rasinga.
Enter Samarkoon and a forest freebooter.
Sam.
Now, stop we here; in this sequester'd spot,
We may with freedom commune on the purpose
For which I would engage thy speedy aid.
Thou knowest who I am; and dost remember
Where, how, and when I last encounter'd thee?

Free.
I do, my lord; but though thou findst me thus,
Alone and slightly arm'd, be well assured
I will defend my life and liberty,
Against thyself (looking suspiciously around)
or any ambush'd band,
To the last bloody push of desperation.

Sam.
I know thou wilt; it is thy desp'rate prowess
That makes me now, all robber as thou art,
And lurking here disguised, as well I guess,
For no good end,—to seek thy amity.

Free.
My amity! the noble Samarkoon—
A chief of rank, and brother of Rasinga!

Sam.
Strong passion by strong provocation roused,
Is not a scrup'lous chooser of its means.
How many of these armed desperadoes,
From whose fell hands we did so lately rescue
That petty chieftain and his child, couldst thou
Within short time assemble?

Free.
Few remain
Of those who once, at sound of my shrill horn,
With spear and bow in hand, and quiver'd back
The deadly arrows bearing, issued forth
From cave or woody jungle, fierce but stealthy,
Like glaring, tawny pards,—few, few remain.

Sam.
But some remain?

Free.
Ay, some.

Sam.
And they are brave?

Free.
No braver bandits e'er in deadly strife
With man or tiger grappled.

Sam.
Enough! hie quickly to thy forest haunts,
And near the narrow pass where ye sustain'd
The onset of Rasinga, wait my coming
With all the armed mates thou canst assemble;
And there I'll join thee with a trusty band.
Do this, and thou shalt be rewarded richly.

Free.
I will; nor do I doubt the recompense
From such a noble chief will be most bountiful.

Sam.
Tis well; be speedy, secret, faithful,—brave,
I need not say. So let us separate,
Nor stay for further parley; time is precious.

Free.
I will but go to leave an offering
At the Wiharé yonder; then with speed
Wend to our woods.—But wherefore smilest thou?

Sam.
Dost thou regard such duties?

Free.
Ay, good sooth!
Who has more need of favour from the gods
Than he who leads a life of lawless peril?

[Exit.
Sam.
(exultingly).
Ay, now, Rasinga, set thy costly chamber,
While poor Artina sighs and weeps unheeded,
In gallant order for thy fair new bride!
Another bridegroom and another chamber
Abide her which thou little thinkest of.

[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The castle of Samarkoon. Loud shouting heard without.
Enter several Domestics in confusion.
1st dom.
What shouts are those? do enemies approach?
What can we do in our brave master's absence?

2d dom.
Ha! hear it now! it is no enemy;
It is our lord himself; I know the sound.
And lo! his messenger arrived with tidings. Enter a Messenger.

What are thy news?

Mess.
Right joyful news, I warrant.
Our master brings a bride, by conquest won,
To be the bliss and sunshine of his house;
A bride fair as the goddess, bright Patiné.

1st dom.
Most unexpected tidings; won by conquest?

2d dom.
With whom has he been fighting for such prize?

Mess.
Fy, fy, despatch and make such preparation
As may be fitting for a bride's reception:
There is no time for telling stories now.
Despatch, I say; do ye not hear them nearer?
They are not many furlongs from the gate.

[Exeunt in haste, different ways.

SCENE II.

The hall or principal room of the castle.
Enter Samarkoon, leading in a lady covered with a veil, and followed by two female attendants; then a band of musicians and a train of armed men, with Ehleypoolie and several of his soldiers as prisoners. A nuptial chaunt or song is struck up.
Sam.
I give you all large thanks, my valiant warriors,
For the good service ye have done to me
Upon this day of happy fate. Ere long,
This gentle lady too, I trust, will thank you,
Albeit her present tears and alter'd state
Have made her shrink and droop in cheerless silence.
An ample recompense ye well have won,
That shall not with a sparing hand be dealt.
Meantime, partake our cheer and revelry;
And let the wounded have attendance due;
Let sorcery and medicine combine
To mitigate their pain.
(Turning to the prisoners.)
Nay, Ehleypoolie,
Why from beneath those low'ring brows dost thou
Cast on the ground such wan and wither'd looks?
Thy martial enterprise fell somewhat short
Of thy predictions and thy master's pleasure;
But thou and all thy band have bravely fought,
And no disgrace is coupled with your failure.

Ehley.
Had not my amulets from this right arm
Been at the onset torn, e'en ambush'd foes
Had not so master'd us.

Sam.
Well, be it so; good amulets hereafter
Thou mayst secure, and fight with better luck.

Ehley.
Ay, luck was on your side, good sooth! such luck
As fiends and magic give. Another time—

Sam.
What thou wilt do another time, at present
We have no time to learn.

(To his followers generally.)
[Exeunt all but Samarkoon, the bride, and her female attendants.
Bride.
What can I say?
I was the destined bride of great Rasinga;
My father told me so.

Sam.
But did thy heart—
Did thine own heart, sweet maid, repeat the tale?
And did it say to thee, “The elder chieftain
Is he whom I approve; his younger rival
Unworthy of my choice?

Bride.
My choice! a modest virgin hath no choice.
That I have seen you both; that both have seen
My unveil'd face, alas! is my dishonour,
Albeit most innocent of such exposure.

Sam.
Say not dishonour; innocence is honour;
And thou art innocent and therefore honourable,
Though every slave and spearman of our train
Had gazed upon thy face. The morning star
Receives no taint for that a thousand eyes,
All heavenward turn'd, admire its lovely brightness.
Let me again look in thy dark soft eyes,
And read my pardon in one beamy smile.

[Attempting to draw aside her veil, while she gathers it the closer.
Bride.
Forbear, forbear! this is indignity.

Sam.
And this, dear maid, is childish bashfulness.
[The upper fastening of the veil gives way and falls over her hand.
And look, the silly fence drops of itself;
An omen of good fortune to my love.
Oh! while those eyes are fix'd upon the ground,
Defended from too ardent admiration,
With patience hear my suit.—Two rival chiefs
Have look'd upon thy face, and thou perforce
Must choose or one or other for thy husband.
Rasinga, in his rich and noble mansion,
Hath years already pass'd in wedded love;
And is the husband of a virtuous dame,
Whose faithful heart, in giving place to thee,
Will be asunder torn. My house is humble;
No gay and costly treasures deck its walls;
But I am young, unmarried, and my heart
Shall be thine own, whilst thou reignst mistress here,
As shares the lion's mate his forest cave,
In proud equality. Thou smilst at this;
And it doth please thy fancy;—yea, a tear
Falls on that smiling cheek; yes, thou art mine.

Bride.
Too quickly dost thou scan a passing thought.

Sam.
Thanks, thanks! O take my thanks for such dear words!
And speak them yet again with that sweet voice
Which makes my heart dance in its glowing cell.

1st att.
(advancing to Samarkoon).
My lady is forspent with all this coil;
She has much need of quiet rest. I pray,
On her behalf, let this be granted to her.

Bride
(to 1st att.).
I thank thee, nurse! (To Samarkoon.)
My lord, I would retire.

Sam.
I will retire, or do whate'er thou wilt.
Thy word or wish commands myself and mine.

[Exit.
1st att.
Thyself and thine! a mighty rich dominion!
Alack, alack-a-day, the woeful change!
This rude unfurnish'd tower for the fair mansion
Of great Rasinga! Evil was the hour
When those fell demons stopped us on our way.

Bride.
O, say not so! in great Rasinga's house
A noble wife already holds her state,
And here I shall have no divided pleasure.

1st att.
Divided! Doth an elder faded wife
In love, in honour, or in riches share
Like portion with a youthful beauty? No!
She doth herself become the flatt'ring subject
Of her through whom the husband's favours flow;
And thereby doth increase her rival's power
Her state and dignity.
Thou art a simple child, and hast no sense
Of happiness or honour. Woe the day,
When those fell demons stopp'd our high career!

Bride.
But for my father's anger, and the blood
Which has been shed in this untoward fray,
The day were one of joy and not of woe,
In my poor estimation.

1st att.
Poor, indeed!

2d att.
(advancing).
Fy, nurse! how canst thou so forget thyself?
Thy words are rude; my lady is offended.

1st att.
Who would not, so provoked, forget herself?
Ah! the rich treasures of Rasinga's palace!
His gaudy slaves, his splendid palanquins!
They have pass'd from us like a mummer's show,
Seen for an hour and gone.

Enter a female domestic.
Dom.
My master bids me say, the lady's chamber
Is now in readiness.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The court of the castle.
Enter two domestics, meeting.
1st dom.
The merry revelry continues still
As if but just begun, though Samarkoon
Reminds them anxiously, that preparation
For the defence of this neglected hold,
Is pressing matter of necessity.

2d dom.
Those glutton bandits will not leave a board,
On which good viands smoke or wine-cups sparkle,
For all the words of threat'ning or entreaty,
That mortal tongue can utter.

Enter a third domestic, in great alarm.
3d dom.
Where is our master?

1st dom.
What alarms thee so?

3d dom.
There is a power of armed men advancing.
I saw their dark heads winding through the pass
Above the bushes shown; a lengthen'd line,
Two hundred strong, I guess.

1st dom.
It is Rasinga.

2d dom.
Ring the larum bell,
And rouse those drunken thieves from their debauch.

3d dom.
But I must find our master; where is he?

1st dom.
He was i' th' inner court some minutes since.

[The alarum bell has rang, and many people is confusion cross the stage as the scene closes.

SCENE IV.

An open space before the gate of the castle; armed men are discovered on the walls.
Enter Rasinga and his force.
Ras.
(to those on the walls).
Where is that villain whom ye call your lord?
Let him appear, and say, why, like a robber,—
A reckless, lawless traitor, he hath dared
My servants to attack, my bride to capture,
And do most foul dishonour to my state.
Am I a driv'ling fool,—a nerveless stripling,—
A widow'd Rany, propping infants' rights,
That thus he reckons with impunity
To pour on me such outrage?

Enter Samarkoon above, and stands on the wall over the gate.
Sam.
Rasinga, thou art robb'd and thou art wrong'd,
And hast good cause to utter stormy words.

Ras.
Ay, and good cause to back those stormy words
With stormy blows, which soon shall force that gate,
Make desp'rate entrance through the rifted walls,
And leave within your paltry tower, of all
Who dare oppose my arms, no living thing,
Unless thou do restore the mountain beauty,
And all the spoil thou hast so basely won.

Sam.
Though I have dared to wrong thee, brave Rasinga,
I've done it in the heat and agony
Of passions that, within a generous breast,
Are irresistible, and, be assured,
With no weak calculations of impunity.
The living treasure I have robb'd thee of
I will defend to the extremity
Of desp'rate effort, e'en in this poor hold,
Mann'd as it is.—I well might speak to thee
Of equal claims to that fair beauty's favour;
Of secret love; of strong fraternal sympathy
With her whose honour'd name I will not utter;
But that were vain.

Ras.
Vain as a sea-bird's screams,
To check the wind-scourg'd ocean's rising billows:
So far thou speakest wisely.—Stern defiance
I cast to thee; receive it as thou mayst,
Audacious traitor!

Sam.
And I to thee do cast it back again
With words and heart as dauntless as thine own.

Ras.
(to his followers).
Here ends our waste of breath and waste of time.
On, pioneers, and let your pond'rous mallets
Break down the gate! To it, my valiant bowmen!
Discharge a shower of arrows on that wall,
And clear it of yon load of miscreant life.

[Rasinga' s followers raise a shout, which is answered by one equally loud from the adverse party, and the attack commences. After great efforts of attack and defence, the gate is at last forced, and Rasinga, with his force, enters the castle. The scene then closes.

SCENE V.

A wild mountain pass, with a bridge swung from one high perpendicular rock to another. The course of a small stream, with its herby margin, seen beneath. Martial music is heard, and a military procession seen at some distance, winding among the rocks, and at length crossing the bridge. Then come the followers of Rasinga in triumph, leading Samarkoon in chains, followed by men bearing a palanquin, and in the rear Rasinga himself, with his principal officers. As he is on the middle of the bridge, Juan De Creda enters below, and calls to him with a loud voice.
Juan.
Rasinga, ho! thou noble chief, Rasinga!

Ras.
(above).
Who calls on me?

Juan.
Dost thou not know my voice?

Ras.
Juan de Creda, is it thou indeed?
Why do I find thee here?

Juan.
Because the power, that rules o'er heaven and earth,
Hath laid its high commission on my soul
Here to arrest thee on thy fatal way.

Ras.
What mean such solemn words?

Juan.
Descend to me, and thou shalt know their meaning.

[Rasinga crosses the bridge and re-appears below.
Ras.
I have obey'd thee, and do bid thee welcome
To this fair land again.—But thou shrinkst back,
Casting on me looks of upbraiding sorrow:
With thee I may not lordly rights assert;
What is thy pleasure?

Juan.
Is he, the prisoner now led before thee,
Loaded with chains, like a vile criminal,
Is he the noble Samarkoon, thy brother?

Ras.
Miscall not by such names that fetter'd villain:
He, who once wore them with fair specious seeming,
Is now extinct to honour, base and treacherous.
The vilest carcass, trampled under foot
By pond'rous elephant, for lawless deeds,
Was ne'er inhabited by soul more worthless.

Juan.
Thy bitter wrath ascribes to his offence
A ten-fold turpitude. Suspect thy judgment.
When two days' thought has communed with thy conscience,
Of all the strong temptations that beset
Unwary youth by potent passions urged,
Thou wilt not pass on him so harsh a censure.

Ras.
When two days' thought! If that he be alive,
And wear a human semblance two days hence,
In the fell serpent's folds, the tiger's paws,
Or earthquake's pitchy crevice, with like speed,
Be my abhorred end!

Juan.
Hold, hold, Rasinga!
The God, in whose high keeping is the fate
Of every mortal man, or prince, or slave,
Hath this behest declared,—that sinful man
Should pardon grant to a repentant brother;
Yea, more than this,—to his repentant enemies.
So God commands: and wilt thou prove rebellious?

Ras.
Ha! hast thou been in heaven since last we met,
To bring from hence this precious message? Truly
Thou speakst as if thou hadst.

Juan.
No, I have found it in my native land,
Within the pages of a sacred book,
Which I and my compatriots do believe
Contains the high revealed will of God.

Ras.
Ha! then those Europeans, whom the sea
Hath cast like fiends upon our eastern shores,
To wrong and spoil and steep the soil with blood,
Are not compatriots of thy book-taught land.
What! dost thou cast thine eyes upon the ground?
The stain of rushing blood is on thy cheek.
If they be so, methinks they have obey'd
That heavenly message sparingly.—Go to!
Tell me no more of this fantastic virtue,—
This mercy and forgiveness. E'en a woman,
A child, a simpleton would laugh to scorn
Such strange unnatural duty.

Juan.
Call it not so till I have told thee further—

[Taking his hand.
Ras.
Detain me not. But that to thee I owe
My life from fatal sickness rescued,—dearly,
Full dearly shouldst thou pay for such presumption.
Let go thy hold!

Juan.
I will not till thou promise,
Before thy vengeful purpose be effected,
To see me once again.

Ras.
I promise then, thou proud and dauntless stranger;
For benefits are traced in my remembrance
With lines as ineffaceable as wrongs.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The house of Montebesa; who enters, meeting a servant from the opposite side.
Mont.
What com'st thou to impart? thy busy face
Is full of mingled meaning, grief and gladness.

Serv.
My Lord Rasinga, madam, is returned,—
Return'd victorious; and the fair young bride
Again is rescued by his matchless valour.

Mont.
All this is good; hast thou no more to tell?

Serv.
Alas! I have; for, by his spearmen guarded,
Loaded with chains, most rueful to behold,
Comes Samarkoon. For now it doth appear,
That he, enleagued with robbers, was the spoiler,
Who beat the gallant train of Ehleypoolie,
And bore away their prize.

Mont.
Oh, this is dreadful! Clouds o'erlapping clouds
Are weaving o'er our house an evil woof,—
A fearful canopy. It was to us
That ominous sign was sent, but few days past,
When Boodhoo's rays, beneath the noon's blue dome
With shiv'ring motion gleam'd in streaky brightness,
Surpassing mid-day splendour. Woe is me!
I saw it not unmoved; but little thought,
Ah! little thought of misery like this. Enter Juan de Creda.

Welcome, De Creda; thou in hour of need
Art ever wise and helpful. Dost thou know
Of this most strange event? Of Samarkoon
As lawless spoiler by Rasinga conquer'd,
And led—

Juan.
I do; and come to entreat thee, lady,
That thou with thy enchafed and vengeful son
Mayst use a mother's influence to save him.

Mont.
Entreaties are not wanted, good De Creda,
For herein I am zealous as thyself.

Juan.
He must not die.

Mont.
Nor shall, if I can save him.

Juan.
Then let us meet Rasinga, as he passes,
Ere he can reach the shelter of his chamber,
Where men are wont to cherish moody wrath;
And we will so beset him with our prayers,
That we shall move his soul, if it be possible.
The fair Artina too must come with us
To beg her brother's life.

Mont.
Yes, be it so; but first let us apprise her,
And do it warily, lest sudden grief
O'erwhelm her totally.

Juan.
That will be necessary.
And, lady, let us find her instantly;
We have no time to spare.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

A gallery or passage leading to Rasinga' s chamber.
Enter Rasinga, speaking to an officer, who follows him.
Ras.
And let his dungeon be secured to the utmost
With bolts and bars; and set a double guard
To watch the entry. Make it sure, I say:
For if thy prisoner escape, thy life
Shall pay the forfeit. This thou knowest well,
Therefore be vigilant.
[Exit officer.
The very blood is boiling in my veins,
Whilst the audacious braver of my rights,
My arms, my honour, e'en within a dungeon
And manacled with iron, breathes vital air.

Enter Montebesa by the farther end of the gallery, followed by Artina and Juan de Creda, who remain without advancing further, whilst she approaches her son with an air of dignity.
Mont.
Rasinga, let a mother, who rejoices
In every victory thy arms achieve,
Be it o'er foreign, yea, or kindred foe,
Greet thee right heartily!

Ras.
I thank you, lady!

Mont.
But that my pride in thee may be unmix'd
With any sense of aught to taint thy glory,
Grant me a boon that will enhance thy triumph,
And make me say, with full, elated heart,
Rasinga is my son.

Ras.
Name it; whate'er a man may grant is thine.

Mont.
The life of Samarkoon: that is my boon.

Ras.
The life of Samarkoon! then thou dost ask
The foul disgrace and ruin of thy son.

Mont.
Not so; for thine own peace and future weal,
I do adjure thee to be merciful.

Ras.
And wouldst thou see the son whom thou didst bear,
An unrevenged, despised, derided man?
And have I gain'd from thee and my brave sire
This manly stature and these hands of strength
To play an idiot's or a woman's part?
If such indeed be Montebesa's wish,
Poor slight-boned, puny, shambling drivellers,
Or sickly maidens, should have been the offspring
Produced by her to mock a noble house.

Mont.
O say not so! there will be no dishonour.

Ras.
What! no dishonour in the mocking lips,
And pointing fingers of the meanest peasant,
Who would his whetted blade sheath in the heart
Of his own mother's son for half the wrong,—
Ay, half the wrong which that audacious traitor
Has done to me! Cease, lady; say no more:
I cannot henceforth live in ignominy;
Therefore, good sooth! I cannot grant your boon.

Art.
(rushing forward and catching hold of his hand and his garments).
Dear, dear Rasinga! wilt thou make my life
One load of wretchedness? Thou'st cast me off,—
I who so loved thee and love thee still,—
Thou'st cast me off, and I will meekly bear it.
Then, wilt thou not make some amends to me,
In a saved brother's life, for all the tears,
The bitter tears and anguish this has caused me?

Ras.
(shaking her off).
Thy plea is also vain; away, away!
Thy tears and anguish had been better comforted,
Had he a more successful spoiler proved.
[Turning fiercely on Juan de Creda, who now advances.
Ha! thou too art upon me! Thou whose kindred
And colleagues are of those who read good lore,
And speak like holy saints, and act like fiends.
By my brave father's soul, where'er it be,
Thou art a seemly suitor for such favour!

[Bursts away from them and exit.
Art.
De Creda, good De Creda, dear De Creda!
Wilt thou not follow him?

Juan.
Not now; it were in vain; I might as well,
While wreck of unroof'd cots and forest boughs,
And sand and rooted herbage whirl aloft,
Dark'ning the sky, bid the outrageous hurricane
Spare a rock-cresting palm. But yet despair not;
I'll find a season. Let me lead thee hence.

Mont.
I fear the fierceness of his untamed spirit
Will never yield until it be too late;
And then he will, in brooding, vain repentance,
The more relentless be to future criminals;
As though the death of one he should have spared
Made it injustice e'er to spare another.
I know his dangerous nature all too well.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

A prison.
Samarkoon is discovered in chains; a lamp burning on the ground near him, and a pitcher of water by it.
Sam.
And now the close of this my present being,
With all its hopes, its happiness, and pain.
Is near at hand,—a violent bloody close,
Perhaps with added torture and disgrace.
Oh, Kattragam, terrific deity!
Thy stern decrees have compass'd all this misery.
Short, turbulent, and changeful, and disastrous,
Hath been this stage of my existence. What,
When this is past, abides me in my progress
To the still blessing of unvision'd rest,
Who may imagine or conjecture?—Blessing!
Alas! it is a dull unjoyous blessing
To lose, with consciousness of pain, all consciousness:
The pleasure of sweet sounds and beauteous sights.
Bride, sister, friends,—all vanish'd and extinct,
That stilly, endless rest may be unbroken.
Oh, oh! he is a miserable man,
Who covets such a blessing!—Hush, bad thoughts!
Rebellious, faithless thoughts! My misery
Is deep enough to make e'en this a blessing. Enter Artina.

It cannot be! is it some fantasy?
Who and what art thou?

Art.
(approaching him softly).
The thing I seem; thy miserable sister.

Sam.
My gen'rous, loving sister, in her love
Running such fearful risk to comfort me.

Art.
Nay, more than this, dear brother; more than comfort;
I come to set thee free.

Sam.
Has he relented?

Art.
No, no! Rasinga is most ruthless. I,
By means of this (showing a signet),
which, in our better days,
It was my privilege to use at will,
Have pass'd the guards, and may a short while hence
By the same means return,—return in safety.
Meantime let me undo those galling fetters;
I've brought fit tools, and thou shalt teach me how.

Sam.
But canst thou think the guards will let thee pass,
E'en with thy signet, leading a companion?
It cannot be; thou dost deceive thyself;
Thy mis'ry and affection make thee foolish.

Art.
Not so; there is a secret passage yonder.
That stone (pointing to it)
like many others in the wall,
But rougher still (goes close to the stone and touches it),
look at it!
take good heed,
Has in its core a groove on which it turns:
A man's full strength will move it, and despair
Will make thee strong.

Sam.
Were two men's strength required, I feel within me
The means for such deliverance; if, indeed,
Thou hast not been deceived by some false tale.

Art.
I'm not deceived. But wait, when I am gone,
With limbs yet seemingly enthrall'd, until
The wary guard hath come to ascertain
Thy presence here; and then, when he retires,—
Thou knowst the rest.—Haste, let me loose thy shackles.
Is this the way?

[Kneeling down and using her implements for breaking the chains, which she draws from the folds of her robe.
Sam.
Well done, my most incomparable sister!
Affection seems to teach thee craftsman's skill.

Art.
This link is broken.

Sam.
So it is indeed.
If I am fated yet to live on earth,
A prosp'rous man, I'll have thy figure graven,
As now thou art, with implements in hand,
And make of it a tutelary idol.

Art.
(still working at the chains.)
Ha! thou speakst cheerly now; and thy changed voice
Is a good omen. Dost thou not remember
How once in play I bound thy stripling limbs
With braided reeds, as a mock criminal?
We little thought—Another link is conquer'd;
And one alone remains.
[Tries to unloose it.
But it is stubborn.
Oh, if that I should now lack needed strength!
Vile, hateful link, give way!

Enter Rasinga, and she starts up, letting fall her tools on the ground.
Ras.
And thou art here, thou most rebellious woman!
A faithful spy had given me notice of it,
And yet, methought, it was impossible
Thou couldst be so rebellious, so bereft
Of female honour, matronly allegiance.

Art.
Upbraid me not, my lord; I've at your feet
Implored you to relent and spare his life,
The last shoot of my father's honour'd house.
But thou, with unrelenting tyranny,
Hast chid me from thee.—Matronly allegiance,
E'en in a favour'd and beloved wife,
O'errules not every duty; and to her,
Who is despised, abandon'd, and disgraced,
Can it be more imperious? No, Rasinga;
I were unmeet to wear a woman's form,
If, with the means to save my brother's life,
Not implicating thine, I had, from fear
Of thy displeasure, grievous as it is,
Forborne to use them.

Ras.
Ha! such bold words to justify the act,
Making rebellion virtue! Such audacity
Calls for the punishment which law provides
For faithless and for disobedient wives.

Sam.
Rasinga, if that shameful threat be serious,
Thou art the fellest, fiercest, meanest tyrant,
That e'er joined human form to demon's spirit.

Ras.
And dost thou also front me with a storm
Of loud injurious clamour?—Ho, without!
[Calling aloud.
I came not here to hold a wordy war
With criminals and women.—Ho! I say. Enter Guards.

Secure the prisoner, and fasten tightly
His unlock'd chains.—And, lady, come thou instantly
To such enthralment as becomes thy crime.

[Exeunt Rasinga and Artina, who is led off by guards, while motioning her last farewell to Samarkoon. The scene closes.

SCENE IX.

An apartment in the house of Montebesa.
Samar is discovered playing on the floor with toys, and Sabaw atté sitting by him.
Samar
(holding up a toy).
This is the prettiest plaything of them all:
I will not use it till my mother come,
That she may see it fresh and beautiful.

Sab.
Alas, sweet Samar! would that she were here!

Samar.
Will she not soon? how long she stays away!
And she has been so kind to me of late.

Sab.
Was she not always kind?

Samar.
Yes, always very kind; but since my father
Has thought of that new bride—I hate that bride—
And spoken to me seldom and with looks
Not like his wonted looks, she has been kinder;
Has kiss'd me oftener, and has held me closer
To her soft bosom. O she loves me dearly!
And dearly I love her!—Where is she now,
That thou shouldst say, “I would that she were here!”

Sab.
Dear boy; I may not tell thee.

Samar.
May not tell me!
Then she is in some sad and hateful place,
And I will go to her.

Sab.
Ah no! thou canst not.

Samar.
I will; what shall withhold me, Sabawatté?

Sab.
Strong bolts and bars, dear child!

Samar.
Is she in prison?

Sab.
She is.

Samar.
And who hath dared to put her there?

Sab.
Thy father.

Samar.
Then he is a wicked man,
Most cruel and most wicked.
I'll stay no longer here; I'll go to her;
And if through bolts and bars I may not pass,
I at her door will live, as my poor dog
Close by my threshold lies and pines and moans,
When he's shut out from me.—I needs must go;
Rooms are too good for me when she's in prison.
Come, lead me to the place; I charge thee, do;
I'll stay no longer here.

Enter Montebesa, and he runs to her, clasping her knees, and bursting into tears.
Mont.
What is the matter with thee, my dear child?
(To Sabawatté.)
Does he know aught?

Sab.
I could not keep it from him.

Samar.
I know it all; I know it all, good granddame.
O take me to her! take me to her prison!
I'll be with her; I'll be and bide with her;
No other place shall hold me.

Mont.
Be pacified, dear child! be pacified,
And I myself will take thee to thy mother:
The guards will not refuse to let me pass.
Weep not so bitterly, my own dear Samar!
Fy! wipe away those tears and come with me.

Sab.
A blessing on you, madam, for this goodness!
It had been cruelty to keep him here.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The private chamber of Rasinga, who is discovered walking backwards and forwards in great agitation.
Ras.
That I—that I alone must be restrain'd!
The very meanest chief who holds a mansion
May therein take his pleasure with a second,
When that his earlier wife begins to fade,
Or that his wearied heart longs for another.
Ay, this may be; but I am deem'd a slave,
A tamed—a woman bound—a simple fool.
[After a pause.
Nor did I seek for it; fate was my tempter.
That face of beauty was by fate unveil'd;
And I must needs forbear to look upon it,
Or looking, must forbear to love.—Bold traitor!
That he should also, in that very moment,
Catch the bright glimpse and dare to be my rival!
Fy, fy! His jealous sister set him on.
Why is my mind so rack'd and rent with this?
Jealous, rebellious, spiteful, as she is,
I need not, will not look upon her punishment.
Beneath the wat'ry gleam one moment's struggle,—
No more but this.
[Tossing his arms in agony.
Oh, oh! there was a time,
A time but shortly passed, when such a thought
Had been—the cords of life had snapt asunder
At such a thought.—And it must come to this!
[After another perturbed pause.
It needs must be: I'm driven to the brink.
What is a woman's life, or any life
That poisons his repose for whom it flourish'd?
I would have cherish'd, honour'd her, yet she,
Rejecting all, has e'en to this extremity—
No, no! it is that hateful fiend her brother,
Who for his damn'd desires and my dishonour
Hath urged her on.—The blood from his shorn trunk
Shall to mine eyes be as the gushing fount
To the parch'd pilgrim—Blood! but that his rank
Forbids such execution, his marr'd carcass,
A trampled mass—a spectacle of horror,
Should—the detested traitor!
[Noise at the door.
Who is there?

Juan (without).
Juan de Creda: pray undo thy door.

Ras.
No, not to thee; not e'en to thee, De Creda.

Juan (without).
Nay, but thou must, or fail in honest truth.
I have thy promise once again to see me
Ere thy revengeful purpose take effect;
Yea, and I hold thee to it.

Ras.
Turn from my door, for thou since then hast seen me,
And hast no further claim.

Juan
(without).
Tamper not so unfairly with thy words:
I saw thee as the forest peasant sees
A hunted tiger passing to his lair.
Is this sufficient to acquit thee? No;
I claim thy promise still, as unredeem'd.
Unbar thy chamber door and let me in.

Ras.
(opening the door, and as Juan enters).
Come in, come in then, if it must be so.
Is misery a pleasant sight to thee,
That thou dost beg and pray to look upon it?

Juan.
Forgive me, brave Rasinga, if I say,
The mis'ry of thine alter'd face, to me
Is sight more welcome than a brow composed.
But 'tis again to change that haggard face
To the composure of a peaceful mind,
That I am come.—O deign to listen to me!
Let me beseech thee not to wreck thy happiness
For fell revenge!

Ras.
Well, well; and were it so,
I wreck my happiness to save my honour.

Juan.
To save thine honour?

Ras.
Yes; the meanest salve
That turns the stubborn soil with dropping brow,
Would hold an outraged, unrevenged chief,
As more contemptible than torpid reptile
That cannot sting the foot which treads upon it.

Juan.
When fear or sordid motives are imputed
As causes why revenge hath been forborne,
Contempt will follow, from the natural feelings
Of every breast, or savage or instructed.
But when the valiant and the gen'rous pardon,
E'en instantly as lightning rends the trunk
Of the strong Nahagaha pride of the wood,
A kindred glow of admiration passes
Through every manly bosom, proving surely,
That men are brethren, children of one sire,
The Lord of heaven and earth.

Ras.
Perplex me not with vain and lofty words,
That to the stunn'd ear of an injured man
Are like the fitful sounds of a swoln torrent,
Noble, but void of all distinctive meaning.

Juan.
Their meaning is distinct as well as noble,
Teaching to froward man the will of God.

Ras.
And who taught thee to know this will of God?

Juan.
Our sacred Scripture.

Ras.
What? your Christian Scripture,
Which, as I have been told, hath bred more discord
Than all the other firebrands of the earth,
With church opposed to church, and sect to sect,
In fierce contention; ay, fell bloody strife.
Certes, if all from the same book be taught,
Its words may give, as I before have said,
A noble sound, but no distinctive meaning.

Juan.
That which thou hast been told of shameful discord,
Perversely drawn from the pure source of peace,
Is true; and yet it is a book of wisdom,
Whose clear, important, general truths may guide
The simplest and the wisest: truths which still
Have been by every church and sect acknowledged.

Ras.
And what, I pray, are these acknowledged precepts,
Which they but learn, it seems, to disobey?

Juan.
The love of God and of that blessed Being,
Sent in His love to teach His will to men,
Imploring them their hearts to purify
From hatred, wrong, and ev'ry sensual excess,
That in a happier world, when this is past,
They may enjoy true blessedness for ever.

Ras.
Then why hold all this coil concerning that
Which is so plain, and excellent, and acknowledged?

Juan.
Because they have in busy restless zeal
Raised to importance slight and trivial parts;
Contending for them, till they have at last
Believed them of more moment, e'en than all
The plain and lib'ral tenor of the whole.
As if we should maintain a wart or mole
To be the main distinctions of a man,
Rather than the fair brow and upright form,—
The graceful, general lineaments of nature.

Ras.
This is indeed most strange: how hath it been?

Juan.
The Scripture lay before them like the sky,
With all its glorious stars, in some smooth pool
Clearly reflected, till in busy idleness,
Like children gath'ring pebbles on its brink,
Each needs must cast his mite of learning in
To try its depth, till sky, and stars, and glory,
Become one wrinkled maze of wild confusion.
But that good Scripture and its blessed Author
Stand far apart from such perplex'd contention,
As the bright sky from the distorted surface
Of broken waters wherein it was imaged.

Ras.
And this good Scripture does, as thou believest,
Contain the will of God.

Juan.
I do believe it.
And therein is a noble duty taught,
To pardon injuries,—to pardon enemies.

Ras.
I do not doubt it. 'Tis an easy matter
For holy sage or prophet in his cell,
Who lives aloof from wrongs and injuries
Which other men endure, to teach such precepts.

Juan.
Most justly urged: but He who utter'd this
Did not enforce it at a rate so easy.
Though proved by many good and marv'llous acts
To be the mission'd Son of the Most High,
He meekly bore the wrongs of wicked men;
And in the agonies of crucifixion,—
The cruel death He died,—did from His cross
Look up to heav'n in earnest supplication
E'en for the men who were inflicting on Him
Those shameful suff'rings,—pardon e'en for them.

Ras.
(bowing his head, and covering his face with his hands).
Indeed, indeed, this was a noble Being.

Juan.
Ay, brave Rasinga; ireful as thou art,
Thou hast a heart to own such excellence.
[Laying his hand soothingly on Rasinga's.
And do consider too how he who wrong'd thee,—
The youthful Samarkoon—

Ras.
(shaking off his hand impatiently).
Name not the villain!

Juan.
That epithet belongs not to a youth,
Who in the fever'd madness of strong passion,
By beauty kindled. goaded by despair,
Perhaps with sympathy, for that he deem'd
A sister's sorrows—

Ras.
Hold thy peace, De Creda;
Thy words exasperate and stir within me
The half-spent flames of wrath.
He is a villain, an audacious villain;
A most ungrateful, cunning, artful villain.
Leave me, I charge thee, lest thou utter that
Which might provoke me to unseemly outrage.
Lowe my life to thee, and but for that—
Leave me, I charge thee.

Juan.
I do not fear what thou mayst do to me.

Ras.
No; but I fear it: therefore quit me instantly.
Out, out!
[Opening the door and pushing him away.
Ho! Ehleypoolie! ye who wait without,
I want your presence here.

[Exit Juan
Enter Ehleypoolie and Mihdoony.
Ehley.
(after having waited some time to receive the commands of his master, who, without noticing him, walks about the chamber in violent agitation).
My lord, we humbly wait for your commands.
(Aside to Mihdoony.)
He heeds us not: as though we were not here.
(Aloud.)
We humbly wait, my lord, to know your pleasure.

Ras.
My pleasure is—
[Stopping, and looking bewildered.
I know not what it is.

Mih.
Perhaps, my lord, you wish to countermand
Some orders that regard the executions
Fix'd for to-morrow, at an hour so early.

Ras.
When did Rasinga countermand his orders,
So call'd for, and so given?—Why wait ye here!

Ehley.
You summon'd us, my lord; and well you know
That Ehleypoolie hath a ready aptness
For—

Ras.
Boasting, fooling, flattery, and lies.
Begone, I say; I did not summon you.
At least I meant it not.

[Turns away hastily, and exit by another door.
Ehley.
For boasting, fooling, flattery, and lies!
How angry men pervert all sober judgment!
If I commend myself, who, like myself,
Can know so well my actual claims to praise?

Mih.
Most true; for surely no one else doth know it.

Ehley.
And fooling is an angry name for wit.

Mih.
Thy wit is fooling; therefore should it seem,
Thy fooling may be wit. Then for thy flattery,
What dost thou say to that?

Ehley.
Had he disliked it,
It had been dealt to him in scantier measure.
And lies—to hear a prince whose fitful humours
Can mar or make the vassals who surround him,
Name this as special charge on any one!
His violent passions have reduced his judgment
To very childishness.

Mih.
But dost thou think the fierceness of his wrath
Will make him really bring to execution
A wife who has so long and dearly loved him?

Ehley.
How should I know what he will really do?
The words he spoke to me e'en now may show thee
His judgment is obscured. But if he do;
Where is the harm when faded wives are cross
And will not live in quietness with a younger,
To help them on a step to their Newané?
She never favour'd me, that dame Artina,
And I foresaw she would not come to good.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A large court, or open space, with every thing prepared for the execution of Samarkoon: a seat of state near the front of the stage. Spectators and guards discovered.
1st spec.
There is a mass of life assembled here:
All eyes, no voice; there is not e'en the murmur
Of stifled whispers.—Deep and solemn silence!

2d spec.
Hush, hush! Artina comes, and by her side,
Her son in the habiliments of one
Prepared for death. This surely cannot be:
It is impossible.

1st spec.
I hope it is.

Enter Artina and Samar, with Sabawatté on the one side of them, and Juan de Creda on the other; attendants following.
Art.
Alas, for thee, my noble, generous child!

Samar.
Fear not for me, dear mother! Lean upon me.
Nay, let me feel your hand upon my shoulder,
And press'd more heavily. It pleases me,
Weak as I am, to think I am thy prop.

Art.
O what a prop thou wouldst have been to me!
And what a creature for a loathly grave,—
For death to prey upon!—Turn, turn! Oh, turn!
Advance no further on this dreadful path

Samar.
I came not here to turn; and for the path,
And what it leads to, if you can endure it,
Then so can I:—fear not for me, dear mother!
Nay, do not fear at all; 'twill soon be over.

Art.
Oh! my brave heart! my anguish and my pride,
E'en on the very margin of the grave.—
Good Sabawatté! hold him; take him from me.

Sab.
I cannot, madam; and De Creda says,
'Tis best that you should yield to his desire.

Art.
It is a fearful—an appalling risk.

Sab.
Is there aught else that you would charge me with?

Art.
Yes, dearest friend, there is—it is my last.
Let not my little daughters know of this;
They are too young to miss me. Little Moora
Will soon forget that she has seen my face;
Therefore whoe'er is kind to them they'll love.
Say this to her, who will so shortly fill
Their mother's place, and she will pity them.
Add, if thou wilt, that I such gentle dealings
Expected from her hands, and bade thee teach them
To love and honour her.

Sab.
My heart will burst in uttering such words.

Art.
Yet for my sake thou'lt do it; wilt thou not?

[Sabawatté motions assent, but cannot speak.
Enter Samarkoon chained and guarded.
Art.
(rushing on to meet him).
My brother, my young Samarkoon; my brother,
Whom I so loved in early, happy days;
Thou top and blossom of my father's house!

Sam.
Weep not, my sister; death brings sure relief;
And many a brave man's son has died the death
That now abideth me.

Art.
Alas! ere that bright sun which shines so brightly
Shall reach his noon, of my brave father's race
No male descendant shall remain alive,—
Not one to wear the honours of his name,—
And I the cursed cause of all this wreck!
Oh, what was I, that I presumptuously
Should think to keep his undivided heart!
'Twere better I had lived a drudge,—a slave,
To do the meanest service of his house,
Than see thee thus, my hapless, noble brother.

Sam.
Lament not, gentle sister; to have seen thee
Debased and scorn'd, and that most wondrous creature,
Whose name I will not utter, made the means
Of vexing thee—it would have driven me frantic.
Then do not thus lament; nor think that I
Of aught accuse thee. No; still let us be
In love most dearly link'd, which only death
Has power to sever.—
[To Samar, as first observing him.
Boy, why art thou here?

Samar.
To be my mother's partner and companion.
'Tis meet; for who but me should cling to her?

Enter Rasinga, and places himself in the seat: a deep silence follows for a considerable time.
Mih.
(who has kept guard with his spearmen over Samarkoon, now approaching Rasinga).
The hour is past, my lord, that was appointed;
And you commanded me to give you notice.
Is it your pleasure that the executioners
Proceed to do their office on the prisoners,
Who are all three prepared?

Ras.
What dost thou say?

Mih.
The three prepared for death abide your signal.

Ras.
There are but two.

Mih.
Forgive opposing words; there is a third.

Ras.
A third, sayst thou? and who?

Mih.
Your son, my lord;
A volunteer for death, whom no persuasion
Can move to be divided from his mother.

Ras.
I cannot credit this; it is some craft,—
Some poor device. Go, bring the boy to me.
[Mihdoony leads Samar to his father.
Why art thou here, my child? and is it so,
That thou dost wish to die?

Samar.
I wish to be where'er my mother is,
Alive or dead.

Ras.
Think well of what thou sayst
It shall be so if thou indeed desire it.
But be advised! death is a dreadful thing.

Samar.
They say it is: but I will be with her;
I'll die her death, and feel but what she suffers.

Ras.
And art thou not afraid? Thou'rt ignorant;
Thou dost not know the misery of drowning;—
The booming waters closing over thee,
And thou still sinking, struggling in the tank,
On whose deep bottom weeds and water snakes,
And filthy lizards will around thee twine,
While thou art choking. It is horrible.

Samar.
The death that is appointed for my mother
Is good enough for me. We'll be together:
Clinging to her, I shall not be afraid,
No, nor will she.

Ras.
But wherefore wilt thou leave thy father, Samar?
Thou'st not offended me; I love thee dearly;
I have no son but thee.

Samar.
But thou wilt soon,
Thy new young wife will give thee soon another,
And he will be thy son; but I will be
Son of Artina. We'll be still together:
When, in the form of antelope or loorie,
She wends her way to Boodhoo, I shall still
Be as her young one, sporting by her side.

Ras.
(catching him in his arms, and bursting into tears).
My generous boy! my noble valiant boy!
O such a son bestow'd on such a father!
Live, noble creature! and thy mother also!
Her crime is pardon'd, if it was a crime;
Ye shall not be divided.

Samar
(running back to Artina).
O mother! raise your eyes! you are to live;
We're both to live; my father says we are.
And he has wept, and he has kiss'd me too,
As he was wont to do, ay, fonder far.
Come, come!
[Pulling her towards Rasinga.
He's good, you need not fear him now.

Ras.
Artina, that brave child has won thy life;
And he hath won for me—I have no words
That can express what he hath won for me.
But thou art sad and silent; how is this,
With life, and such a son to make life sweet?

Art.
I have a son, but my brave father, soon,—
Who died an honour'd death, and in his grave
Lies like an honour'd chief,—will have no son,
No male descendant, living on the earth,
To keep his name and lineage from extinction.

[Rasinga throws himself into his seat and buries his face in his mantle.
1st spec.
(in a low voice).
Well timed and wisely spoken: 'tis a woman
Worthy to be the mother of that boy.

2d spec.
(in a low voice to the first).
Look, look,
I pray thee, how Rasinga's breast
Rises and falls beneath its silken vesture.

1st spec.
(as before).
There is within a dreadful conflict passing,
Known by these tokens, as swoln waves aloft
Betray the secret earthquake's deep-pent struggles.

2d spec.
(as before).
But he is calmer now, and puts away
The cover from his face: he seems relieved.

Ras.
(looking round him).
Approach, De Creda; thou hast stood aloof:
Thou feelst my late rude passion and unkindness.
Misery makes better men than I unkind;
But pardon me, and I will make amends.
I would not listen to thy friendly counsel,
But now I will most freely grant to thee
Whatever grace or favour thou desirest:
Even now, before thou nam'st it.

Juan.
Thanks, thanks, Rasinga! this is brave amends.
[Runs to Samarkoon, and commands his chains to be knocked off, speaking impatiently as it is doing.
Out on such tardy bungling! Ye are craftsmen
Who know full well the art to bind men's limbs,
But not to set them free.
[Leads Samarkoon when unbound towards Rasinga, speaking to him as they go.
Come, noble Samarkoon! nay, look more gracious:
If thou disdainst to thank him for thy life,
That falls to me, and I will do it gladly.
[Presenting Samarkoon to Rasinga.
This is the boon which thou hast granted me,
The life of Samarkoon: a boon more precious
To him who grants than who receives it. Yet
Take my most ardent thanks; take many thanks
From other grateful bosoms, beating near thee.

Art.
(kneeling to embrace the knees of Rasinga).
And mine; O mine! wilt thou not look upon me?
I do not now repine that thou art changed:
Be happy with another fairer dame,
It shall not grieve me now.

Ras.
(raising her).
Away, Artina, do not thank me thus.
Remove her, Samarkoon, a little space.
[Waving them off.
Juan de Creda, art thou satisfied?
Have I done well?

Juan.
Yes, I am satisfied.

Ras.
(drawing himself up with dignity).
But I am not; and that which I have done
Would not have satisfied the generous Saviour
Who died upon the cross. Thy friend is pardon'd,
And more than pardon'd;—he is now my brother,
And I to him resign the mountain bride.

[A shout of joy bursts from all around: Artina folds Samar to her breast, and Samarkoon falls at the feet of Rasinga.
Sam.
My noble generous foe, whom I have wrong'd;
Urged by strong passions, wrong'd most grievously!
Now may I kneel to thee without disgrace,
For thou hast bound me with those bands of strength
That do ennoble, not disgrace the bravest.

Ras.
Rise, Samarkoon; I do accept thy thanks
Since that which I resign is worth—But cease!
Speak not of this—if it be possible,
We'll think of this no more.
(Turning to Artina.)
And now, my only and my noble wife,
And thou, my dauntless boy, stand by my side,
And I, so flank'd, will feel myself in honour,—
Honour that lifts and warms and cheers the heart.
And we shall have a feast within our walls;
Our good De Creda, he will tarry with us;
He will not go to-morrow as he threaten'd.

Juan.
I'll stay with you a day beyond the time,
And then I must depart; a pressing duty
Compels me so to do.

Ras.
But thou'lt return again, and bring with thee
The sacred Book which thou hast told me of?

Juan.
I will return again and bring that book,
If Heaven permit. But man's uncertain life
Is like a rain-drop hanging on the bough,
Among ten thousand of its sparkling kindred,
The remnants of some passing thunder shower,
Which have their moments, dropping one by one,
And which shall soonest lose its perilous hold
We cannot guess.—
I, on the continent, must for a time
A wand'rer be; if I return no more,
You may conclude death has prevented me.

Enter Montebesa.
Ras.
Ha, mother! welcome, welcome, Montebesa!
There; take again your daughter and her boy.
We've striven stoutly with a fearful storm,
But, thanks to good De Creda, it is past;
And all the brighter shall our sky appear,
For that the clouds which have obscured its face
Were of a denseness dark and terrible.

[The scene closes.