University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A rocky Shore, with a View of the Sea, at Break of Day.
Fitz-Allan and Raymond meeting.
Raymond.
Well met, Fitz-Allan; what's the time of day?

Fitz-Allan.
Broad morning by the hour.

Raymond.
Sleeps the sun yet?
Or has the stormy south, that howls so loud,
Blown out his untrimm'd lamp, and left us here
To be witch-ridden by this hag of night,
Out of time's natural course?

Fitz-Allan.
Methinks the winds,
Which peal'd like thunder thro' Glendarlock's towers,
Have lower'd their note a pitch; the flecker'd clouds,
Lifting their misty curtain in the east,
Unmask the weeping day.

Enter Montgomeri hastily.
Montgomeri.
Oh, are you men?
Have you less mercy than the winds and waves,
That you stand here aloof?

Fitz-Allan.
Why, what has chanc'd?

Montgomeri.
A noble vessel breaks upon the rocks,
That jut from old Dunnose's rugged base;
And as the floating fragments drive ashore
Our plund'ring islanders (convert their hearts,
Holy St. Michael!) dash the drowning wretches
From the poor wreck they cling to, and engulph them
Quick in the boiling waves: by Heav'n that made me
I cou'd forswear my nature, when I see
Man so degenerate!

Raymond.
Lo! we are ready;
Lead to the beach.

Montgomeri.
Alas! 'tis now too late:
I had not left it but that all was lost:
The element had mercy, man had none.
Two I have sav'd; the one a Carmelite,
Noble the other in his mien and habit;
I left them in the outskirts of the grove;
Let us go forth, my friends, and bring them in:
You to that quarter, I to this.—Away!

[Exeunt severally.
Enter Lord Hildebrand and Saint Valori.
Saint Valori.
Bear up, Lord Hildebrand! there's hope in view.
See'st thou yon turrets, that o'ertop the wood?
There we may shelter from the storm, and men
More merciless than rocks and winds, that wreck'd
Our strong-ribb'd galley in the foaming surge.

Hildebrand.
I see the towers you point at, but I fear
My limbs will fail their burden ere we reach them.
Let me lie down beneath these oaks, and die.

Saint Valori.
If thus you shake with the soul's ague, fear,
Back to the sea, and seek the death you fled from;
Make not a coward's grave on English ground;
Your life is stak'd, your gauntlet is exchang'd,
Each drop of blood about you is in pledge
To meet the champion of Saint Valori,
A lady's champion, in King Henry's lists:
There fight; or, if you needs must die, die there,
Fall, as a Norman knight shou'd fall, in arms.

Hildebrand.
Father, your words accord not with your weeds.

Saint Valori.
Our ancestors were holy men, and they
Ordain'd the combat, as the test of truth;
Let them who made the law defend the law,
Our part is to obey it.—Hark! who comes?
The islanders will be upon us.—Stand!

Enter Fitz-Allan and Raymond.
Fitz-Allan.
What ho! Montgomeri!—the men are found.

Saint Valori.
Inhuman Englishmen! Will you destroy
Your brethren? We are Normans.—

Enter Montgomeri.
Montgomeri.
Ye are men,
Let that suffice; we are no savages.

Saint Valori.
'Tis the brave youth who sav'd us.

Montgomeri.
Heav'n hath sav'd you,
To Heav'n give thanks, O men redeem'd from death:
All else have perish'd!—'Tis a barbarous coast.

Saint Valori.
How is your island named?

Montgomeri.
The Isle of Wight.

Saint Valori.
Alas! that isle so fair should prove so fatal!—
And you our benefactor, by what name
Shall we record you in our prayers?

Montgomeri.
I am call'd
Montgomeri.

Saint Valori.
'Twill be our grateful office,
Generous Montgomeri, to make suit to Heaven
To bless, reward, and from distress like ours
Protect you ever.

Montgomeri.
Now declare thyself,
And this thy mournful friend, whom grief makes dumb,
Say who he is.

Hildebrand.
A wretch without a name.

Saint Valori.
A gentleman of Normandy he is,
One who has seen good days.—'Tis now no time
To tell you further: he has wounds about him,
And bruises dealt him on the craggy beach,
That cry for charity.—Whose is that castle?

Montgomeri.
A lady's, whom we serve, of Norman birth.

Saint Valori.
Then lead us to her gates, for we are Normans;
Poor helpless men, fainting with want of food
And over-watching: tedious nights and days
We struggled with the storm: the greedy deep
Has swallow'd up our ship, our friends, our all,
And left us to your mercy. Sure your lady,
Who owns so fair a mansion, owns withal
A heart to give us welcome.—You are silent.

Fitz-Allan.
To save you, and supply your pressing wants
With food and raiment, and what else you need,
We promise, nothing doubting: more than this
Stands not within our privilege—no stranger
Enters her castle.

Saint Valori.
Wherefore this exclusion?
What can she fear from us?

Fitz-Allan.
Ask not a reason;
We question not her orders, but obey them.

Saint Valori.
Then lay us down before her castle-gates,
And let us die: inhospitable gates!
Your roofs shall echo with our famish'd shrieks.—
A Norman she! impossible: our wolves
Have hearts more pityful.

Montgomeri.
Your saints in bliss,
Your calendar of martyrs does not own
A soul more pure, a virtue more sublime:
Her very name will strike defamers dumb.

Saint Valori.
Speak it.

Montgomeri.
Saint Valori.

Saint Valori.
Uphold me, Heaven!
The ways of Providence are full of wonder,
And all its works are mercy.—How now, Sir!
Will you betray yourself? what shakes you thus?

Hildebrand.
I sicken at the heart: let me go hence,
And make myself a grave.

Saint Valori.
Be patient: stay!—
And hath your lady here consum'd her youth
In pensive solitude? Twenty long years,
And still a widow!

Montgomeri.
Still a mournful widow.

Saint Valori.
Hath she such sorrows of her own, and yet
No heart to pity our's? It cannot be:
I'll not believe but she will take us in,
And comfort her poor countrymen.

Montgomeri.
Forbid it, Heav'n,
That misery thus should plead, and no friend found
To speak in its behalf!—I'll move her for you.

Saint Valori.
The Mother of our Lord reward you for it!
'Twill be a Christian deed.

Fitz-Allan.
Montgomeri, turn:
Have you your senses? the attempt is madness.

Raymond.
Where is the man, native or foreigner,
(Inmates excepted) ever pass'd her doors?—
Who dares to ask it?

Montgomeri.
I; Montgomeri.

Raymond.
So dare not I.

Fitz-Allan.
Nor I: success attend you!
But share the attempt I dare not—so farewell.

[Exeunt.
Montgomeri.
Farewell to both!—Strangers, be not dismay'd,
I'll soon return; the place will be your safeguard.
[Exit Montgomeri.

Saint Valori.
Lord Hildebrand, stand not aghast: you see
The youth is confident: look up and live!

Hildebrand.
By my soul's penitence, I'd rather die
Unpitied, starv'd, and to her castle dogs
Bequeath my untomb'd carcase, than receive
Life from her hands; the widow of Saint Valori!
That brave heroic Champion of the Cross,
Whom, from the holy wars returning home,
Within the rugged Pyrenæan pass—

Saint Valori.
No more of that: I have your full confession;
You slew Saint Valori, and now his widow
Provokes you by her champion to defend
The rights you seiz'd, the title you inherit,
And hold by bloody charter.—What's your fear?
Saint Valori's dead; he cannot rise again,
And beard you in the hists.

Hildebrand.
Oh, that he cou'd!
So I were not a murderer.

Saint Valori.
Grant you slew him,
Twenty long years have staunch'd the bleeding wound
Of him you slew, and laid his angry ghost.
Have you not rear'd his stately tomb, endow'd
The abbey of Saint Valori, and purchas'd
Perpetual masses to reclaim his soul
Prom purgatory's bondage? Have you faith
In absolution's power, and do you doubt
If yet atonement's made?

Hildebrand.
I do perceive
The hand of Heav'n hangs o'er me and my house:
Why am I childless else? seven sons swept off
To their untimely graves; their wretched mother
By her own hand in raging phrenzy died;
And last behold me here, forlorn, abandon'd,
At life's last hour, before her surly gate,
Deaf to my hungry cries: and shall we rank
Such judgments in the casual course of things?
To me 'tis palpable that heav'nly justice
Puts nature by, and to the swelling sum
Of my uncancell'd crimes adds all the lives
Of them who sunk this morning.

Saint Valori.
What know'st thou,
Blind or obdurate man? Shall we despond,
On whom the light of this deliverance shines?
No, let us boldly follow: there's a voice
Augurs within me wond'rous things, and new,
Now on the moment's point: for of a certain
I know this lady shall set wide her gates
To give us joyful welcome: sable weeds
Shall turn to bridal robes, and joy shall ring
Thro' all her festive mansion, where of late
Deep groans and doleful lamentations howl'd.
Therefore no more; from my prophetic lips
Receive Heaven's mandate—and behold 'tis here!

Enter Montgomeri.
Montgomeri.
Health to your hopes, that were but now so sick!
Ye sons of sadness, cast off your despair;
Heav'n has vouchsaf'd deliverance, and sends
Its angel messenger in person to you.

Saint Valori.
Then let me kneel, and hail the heav'nly vision!
[Kneels.
Enter the Lady of Saint Valori.
To Him, to Him alone, who by the hand
Leads his unseeing creatures thro' the vale
Of sorrow, to the day-spring of their hope,
Be praise and adoration!—A poor Monk,
(rising)
Who has trode many a weary league, as far
As there was Christian ground to carry him,
Asks for himself, and for this mournful man,
Newly escap'd from shipwreck, food and rest,
Warmth, and the shelter of your peaceful roof.

Matilda.
Are ye of Normandy?

Saint Valori.
We are of Normandy:
But were we not your countrymen, distress
Like our's wou'd make us so. Two of your servants
Spoke harshly, and had thrust us from your gates
But for this charitable youth.

Matilda.
Alas!
I am a helpless solitary woman,
A widow, who have lost—O God! O God!
'Twill turn my brain to speak of what I've lost:
It is amongst the lightest of my griefs
That I have lost myself.

Saint Valori.
Thyself!

Matilda.
My senses:
At best they are but half my own, sometimes
I am bereft of all. Therefore I lead
On this lone coast a melancholy life,
And shut my gate, but not my charity,
Against the stranger.

Saint Valori.
Oh, support me, Heaven!
'Tis she, 'tis she! that woe-tun'd voice is her's;
Those eyes, that cast their pale and waining fires
With such a melting languor thro' my soul,
Those eyes are her's and sorrow's,—Heart, be still!
She speaks again.

Matilda.
You shall have food and cloathing;
I'll bring you medicines for your bruised wounds.
What else you need declare.

Saint Valori.
If I speak now,
She cannot bear it, it will turn her brain.
What shall I say?—We are your countrymen—
Oh my full heart! Oh anguish to dissemble!

Matilda.
Nay, if you weep—

Saint Valori.
Let us but touch your altar:
We are the sole sad relicks of the wreck.
Let us but kneel and offer up one prayer
For our soul's peace, then turn us forth to die.

Matilda.
Mercy forbid it!—Oh, approach and enter.
If you can weep, we will converse whole days,
And speak no other language; we will sit,
Like fountain statues, face to face oppos'd,
And each to other tell our griefs in tears,
Yet neither utter word.—Pray you, pass on;
I had not been thus strict, but that I hear
Lord Hildebrand is on the seas: I hope
You are not of his friends.

Hildebrand.
Death to my heart!
O father Carmelite, I must have leave—

Saint Valori.
On your salvation, peace!

Matilda.
What wou'd he say?

Saint Valori.
His brain begins to turn: take him away.
I pray you, lead him hence.

Montgomeri leads off Hildebrand.
Matilda.
Alas! I pity him.
Why dost thou stay behind?—Whence that emotion?
What wou'dst thou more?

Saint Valori.
I wou'd invoke a blessing,
But that each sainted spirit in the skies
Will be thy better advocate.

Matilda.
Remember,
When you converse with Heav'n, there is a wretch
Who will be glad of any good man's prayers.—
Farewell.

Saint Valori.
Oh, tell me, have you then endur'd
Twenty long years of mournful widowhood?

Matilda.
They say 'tis twenty years ago he died;
I cannot speak of time: it may be so;
Yet I shou'd think 'twas yesterday.

Saint Valori.
I saw you—

Matilda.
You saw me! When?

Saint Valori.
When you did wed your Lord.—
The paragon of all this world you was.
Grief has gone o'er you like a wintry cloud.—
You've heard this voice before.

Matilda.
I think I have:
It gives a painful sense of former days:
I've heard such voices in my dreams; sometimes
Convers'd with them all night; but then they told me
My senses wander'd.—Pray you, do not harm me:
Leave me, good Monk; indeed I know you not.

Saint Valori.
I wore no monkish cowl in that gay hour
When you wore bridal white. On Pagan ground,
Beneath the banner of the Christian Cross,
Faithful I fought; I was God's soldier then,
Tho' now his peaceful servant.

Matilda.
You have fought
Under the Christian Cross!—You shake my brain.

Saint Valori.
Peace to your thoughts! I will no farther move you:
Shall I not lead you hence?

Matilda.
Stand off; stand off!
The murderer of Saint Valori is abroad;
The bloody Hildebrand is on the seas.—
Rise, rise, ye waves! blow from all points, ye winds,
And whelm th'accursed plank that wafts him over
In fathomless perdition!—Let him sink,
He and his hateful crew! let none escape,
Not one; or if one, let him only breathe
To tell his tale, and die!—Away! begone!
You've made me mad.

Saint Valori.
I was Saint Valori's friend:
He never yet bled with the battle's wound,
But I shed drop for drop: when o'er the sands
Of sultry Palestine with panting heart
He march'd, my panting heart with his kept time,
And number'd throb for throb.

Matilda.
Where are my people?
What ho! Montgomeri! Lead, lead me hence.
Enter Montgomeri hastily, with Gyfford.
Give me thine arm; support me! Oh, 'tis well.
To horse, to horse!—I have a champion now,
Whose hand, heart, soul are mine, and mine are his;
One who has valour to assert my cause,
And worth to wear the honours he defends.

Montgomeri.
What hast thou done, old man?

Gyfford.
Stay not to question;
Look to the lady: leave the Monk with me.

Matilda.
Come, let us hence; I do not live without thee.

[Exit with Montgomeri.
Saint Valori.
Amazement!—Speak, what kindred, what affection,
What passion binds her to that youth?—Resolve me,
Who and what is he?

Gyfford.
You are curious, father.
Who he may be I know not; what he was
I well remember.

Saint Valori.
What was he?

Gyfford.
Her page;
A menial thing, no better than myself.

Saint Valori.
Heavens! can it be? Will she so far descend
From her great name, to wanton with her page?
Saw you the look she gave him?

Gyfford.
I did see it.

Saint Valori.
It seem'd as tho' his eyes had magic in them,
That charm'd away her madness.—Hah! you sigh:
What means that pensive movement of your head?
Answer!

Gyfford.
Good father, question me no more.
Fortune can level all things in this world,
Pull down the mighty and exalt the mean:
But you and I methinks have outliv'd wonders.—
Now to the castle! Shut both ears and eyes:
Hear without noting; see, but not observe.