University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Chamber. Sir Hugh de Lacy, and Reginald.
Sir H.
To part from those, who well deserve our love,
Is no slight task, no trivial sacrifice;
But we are soldiers, and when duty calls,
All those fine chords, that twine about the heart,
In honour's grasp are feeble as the threads,
Which the light spider weaves upon the grass:
Therefore, my hero, let us live to day
As for ourselves, to-morrow for our fame.

Sir R.
Oh brave De Lacy, oh my more than father,
To-morrow, and as many more to-morrows
As in the book of fate are number'd out
For my allotment, I devote as due
To him, whose badge I wear, and to my King,
Who bought me at a price so far beyond
The measure of my worth; but as the soldier,
Who never heard the trumpet sound to battle,
At the first charge may tremble, even so,
In love a novice, I approach the hour,
That takes me hence, with terror and dismay.

Sir H.
Love is no hero's passion.

Sir R.
Virtuous love,
And such is mine to Adela, inspires
Virtuous ambition.

Sir H.
In the warrior's eye
The fire should never languish; to his heart,
Wrapt in its iron case, no fond desire,
No soft unmanly passion should approach:
The feeble darts that love's weak urchin throws,
Pierce not that bosom from whose temper'd mail
The blunted spear rebounds, and, if it pants,
It pants for glory, or with anger swells.

Sir R.
Illustrious chief, I know it is not here,
In Feversham's soft shades, that glory dwells,
But in the dusty plains of Palestine,
Where Saladin draws out his turban'd host.
The soldier's music is the battle's shout,
The clashing cymbal and the neighing steed;
To see a wood of spears uprear'd in air,
Their broad blades glittering in the golden sun,
As they were tipt with fire; whilst over all
The red-cross banner waves, and victory soars.
If these are objects glorious in his eyes
Who never lov'd, how must they fire my soul,
Whose great ambition is to earn a name,
That Leicester's daughter may not blush to share?

Sir H.
Leicester, indeed, might boast as high descent
As any subject in our English realm;
If Leicester, so illustrious in himself,
For valour and for virtue so renown'd,
Had need of such poor aids; but when you say
Your great ambition is to earn a name,
Have you forgot De Tours? Is that a name
Which any noble maid might blush to share?

Sir R.
The hunter names his hounds, so may the King
His soldiers: chance, that gave, may take away
That fleeting favour, and the day may come,
That some ignoble mother, when she sees
Her beggar's brat a prosperous gentleman,
May let her vanity outrun her shame,
And claim me as her base-born progeny.

Sir H.
No, no, that claim will never rise to light;
Seal'd to perpetual silence, it must sleep,
Under the guard of honour. If the name
Of her, who gave you being, were pronounc'd,
The blood, that circles in your veins, would stop,
And cause the pulses of your heart to cease
With wonder and amaze.

Sir R.
I now perceive
You, that have been the patron of my fame,
My father let me call you, are possess'd
Of the important secret, which to impart
If prayers could move you, I would kneel to know.
Look at this cross! the symbol of my faith,
Is this dishonour's badge? Why am I held
Worthy to wear it; if unworthy deem'd
To hold in trust a circumstance, on which
My every hope of happiness, perhaps
The very safety of my soul depends?

Sir H.
Urge me no more; nor time nor place accord,
Nor is thy heart prepar'd to entertain
The awful wonder, till, at distance thrown
From all that here surround us, seas shall roll,
And mountains rise, and nations intervene
'Twixt thee and Adela; then, as we pace
The sacred soil, which our Redeemer trod,
I will unfold: 'Till then forbear thy suit,
Avoid conjecture, 'twill destroy thy peace;
And above all, beware Sir Walter Scroop!

[Exit.
Sir R.
How awfully those warning words confirm
What Nature hath impress'd upon my heart—
Beware Sir Walter Scroop—And see, he comes!

Sir Walter and Lady Scroop enter.
Sir W.
My son, since all-disposing fate ordains
That we must part, my consolation is,
Your virtues have repaid me all the cares
That your whole life hath cost me: you go forth
Grac'd with the royal favour of your Queen,
Nobly appointed in a cause as noble.
New scenes of glory wait you in the East,
Where the prime spirits of the Christian world
With rival zeal will wage their holy war.

Lady S.
Can any war be holy?
Men may wage war for plunder, for revenge,
For their ambition; but to fight for Him,
Who fought not for himself, to my humble reason
Cannot be reconcil'd.

Sir R.
Had Heav'n endow'd
Its creatures with benevolence like your's,
War never had been known; the sword had slept.
But if God gives me victory in the battle,
For your dear sake I will remember mercy,
And spare my fallen foe. So, when withdrawn,
Perhaps for ever, to far distant climes,
I still shall keep your image in my sight,
Still lay your bright example to my heart,
And profit by the lessons you have taught.

Lady S.
Child of my love, my pray'rs shall tell to Heaven
What my tongue dare not, what it cannot speak.
Go, and if just the cause in which you fight,
Conquest will follow your triumphant arms;
But if the fathers of the Church mistake
The peaceful spirit of our meek religion,
And draw the sword to slaughter guiltless men,
Whose only error springs from education,
Vain will be all your efforts. But I've done—
'Tis not a woman's province to discuss
Questions of this high import.

Sir W.
Truly said.
So, even so, my good old mother talk'd,
When for the first time I went forth to battle;
And mothers so will talk to the world's end;
Yet nations will fall out, and men will fight,
In spite of all that peacemakers can say.

A Messenger enters.
Mess.
Sir Knight, you are expected at the convent:
The Earl of Leicester waits.

Sir R.
I shall attend.
[Exit Messenger.
To both my generous friends at once—farewell!
I now anticipate that painful word,
Lest, when to-morrow comes, and brave De Lacy
Points to the harbour, where our galley rides,
My tongue should fail me, and the fervent thanks,
Which my full heart conceives, die on my lips.

[Exit.
Sir Walter and Lady Scroop.
Sir W.
Weep not, my gentle Margaret; dry your tears!
For mark how happy fortune smiles upon us.
Thanks to the bounty of our Queen, we change
A ruin'd castle for a royal palace.
To-morrow Reginald embarks for France;
To-morrow we to Feversham repair,
Therefore farewell to all my cares to-morrow.
I keep it as a double holiday,
A day the whitest in the calendar.

Lady S.
So you are happy, I shall be content.

Sir W.
I know your goodness, and severely feel
My temper's past defects. Oh, 'twas unkind,
It was inhuman, with remorse I own it,
To hurt a heart so tender and so true.
Why did I not confide to you the secret,
That sour'd my nature, and destroy'd my peace?

Lady S.
Ah, why indeed? I am your wife, and scorn
To be the base betrayer of your trust.

Sir W.
Then hear my story, and let that atone—
You may remember, more than twenty years
Have pass'd, since Henry, in despite of Rome,
Drove the arch-prelate Becket from his see:
'Twas then the Earl of Leicester was dispatch'd
To calm the angry Pontiff—hard the task,
And twelve long months of absence had elaps'd,
Whilst here at Feversham his countess liv'd
In solitude with the neglected Queen,
Our royal Eleanor—

Lady S.
I well remember,
Whilst faithless Henry haunted Woodstock bower,
His slighted consort pass'd the dreary time
Unnotic'd and forlorn.

Sir W.
It was the hour
Of midnight, when a summons from the palace
Rous'd me from sleep; I follow'd my conductress,
Who led me to the chamber of a lady,
Within whose arms a smiling cherub lay:
'Twas Leicester's consort, and her new-born babe,
Our darling Reginald—

Lady S.
Oh, horror, horror!
Brother of Adela—Unhappy son
Of her, whom living we esteem'd a saint,
Whom Leicester follow'd to the grave with tears
And sighs, that melted the beholders hearts.
But say, what further evidence of guilt?—
Did she confess it?

Sir W.
Hear the rest, and judge.—
Languid and faint, with trembling voice she said—
“If ever pity touch'd your manly heart,
As a true knight, I do conjure you take
This helpless innocent, protect his life,
And save a wretched mother from disgrace!”
What need of words? I took the lovely babe,
Bound to concealment, rear'd him as you know,
And never hath the secret pass'd my lips,
Till now that in your bosom I repose it.

Lady S.
This could not be a secret from the Queen,
For they were fast and undivided friends.

Sir W.
Right sure she knows it, and I put the favours
Now shower'd on us to Reginald's account.

Lady S.
So it should seem, and yet 'tis somewhat strange
The Queen should be so lenient to a crime,
And so indignant of the imputation,
When pointed at herself—One question more—
Who is the father?

Sir W.
That eludes conjecture:
There I am wholly lost.

Lady S.
Turn, turn the hearts
Of these unconscious lovers, gracious Heaven!
Now bear him hence, ye waves! waft him, ye winds,
Till on the shores of Palestine he lands,
There in the blood of infidels to quench
The incestuous flame, that demons, who delight
In Virtue's fall, have kindled in his breast.

Sir W.
Enough! 'tis done. To-morrow he departs.
Retire, my love, and calm your troubled thoughts.

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to a Hall in the Convent of Feversham.
The Earl of Leicester alone.
Ye sacred walls, by my forefathers rear'd
In the first William's day, with filial awe
Once more I visit you. Amongst their tombs
Silent I walk, as fearing to offend
With my rude steps their venerable shades.

Ambrose enters with Adela.
Amb.
Illustrious patron of our ancient house,
Behold this noble maid, whose inmost thoughts
I've search'd, and find them pure, though sorely rent
With agony for loss of him she loves.
You were a husband once, your heart hath felt
Those strong affections, which, if rudely cross'd,
Bear down the soul with overwhelming woe,
Ev'n to the loss of reason, you can judge
With candour, you with mercy can decide.
Her conscience is my charge, her choice is yours.

[Exit.
Leicester and Adela.
Earl of L.
Come hither, Adela! that holy man
Speaks as he feels, but he is not a father.
To him the world is nothing; names, degrees,
And titles, are but feathers in his scale;
Virtue alone he weighs—

Lady A.
What else is worthy?

Earl of L.
Beware, my child, how you indulge such thoughts,
As bear a show of metaphysic truth,
But, when applied to practice, mock your reason.
We, that are call'd to fill distinguish'd parts
On the world's stage, must so deport ourselves
As not to languish in the world's esteem.
You are my only stay: on you devolves
The fortune of my house: you have a name;
What name hath Reginald?

Lady A.
De Tours. A name
Above all names, ennobled by his king,
Earn'd by his sword, emblazon'd in his blood,
And written on his shield in characters
So legible, that all the world may read.

Earl of L.
True; these are honours that his valour won,
And worthily he wears. These you record
In glowing language; why not add to these
The royal trophy by De Lacy brought,
The scarf, by which you must prepare to deck
The knight, whom kings applaud and queens adorn?
With all these honours grac'd, let him go forth,
Let Palestine be sav'd, and he is yours.

Lady A.
Ere Palestine is sav'd, I shall be lost.

Earl of L.
Your mother was as precious to my sight
As Reginald to yours, yet at the call
Of honour, I left all my heart held dear.

Lady A.
You did, my father; but you carried with you
The consciousness of having left to chance
No power to cancel that heart-binding bond,
Which holy church had seal'd.

Earl of L.
She lov'd my fame;
She was Lord Pembroke's daughter, nobly born.

Lady A.
And yet you lov'd her from a nobler motive—
Her virtues and endowments.

Earl of L.
Ah my child,
Now as I turn my tearful eyes upon thee,
Methinks I see her.

Lady A.
Would to Heaven you did!
Her gentle shade would plead with such a look
Of soft seraphic pity, you would melt,
And own that he alone, who sav'd the life
Of your poor Adela, deserves her love.

Reginald enters to them.
Earl of L.
Welcome, brave Reginald! at length we meet,
And face to face I see the valiant knight,
Who to his followers, in the breach at Tours,
Trac'd out the road to conquest in his blood.

Sir R.
Praise from the man, who is himself adorn'd
With glory's brightest wreath, is praise indeed.

Earl of L.
I hear the King has called a gallant band
Of chosen knights, to be his body's guard,
And fellows in the field.

Sir R.
I hear the same.

Earl of L.
I'm told withal that you are nam'd as one
In this heroic list, and that the scarf
By the queen-mother sent you, is the badge
Of your election.

Sir R.
When that sacred scarf,
Is wrapt around me by an angel's hand,
If my heart so enfolded, does not feel
A hero's fire, I must be less than man.

Earl of L.
Go then, and tear the charmed standard down
Of haughty Saladin; go, make his moons
Stoop in the dust before the conqu'ring cross.
Like a true knight, in danger's front oppose
Your new-emblazon'd shield before the breast
Of your brave King; while infidels, who dream
The gates of Paradise are opening to them,
Infuriate rush to meet predestin'd death.
Then come with all your laurels blooming fresh,
And by the honour that is in me—Hah!
Ambrose the Monk enters.
We are prevented—

Lady A.
No—upon my knees
I do implore you, fill the sentence up,
Complete the promise; let not honour's name
Be pledg'd, to vanish like an idle word;
But, in the hearing of this holy man,
Oh, speak your purpose, speak!

Amb.
If I offend,
Let me depart.

Lady A.
No, no, you can't offend.
My father is not angry; he is kind,
Generous, and full of pity—

Earl of L.
Cease, my child;
Give me your hand—And now, if Reginald,
With heart affianc'd to this noble maid,
Upon the faith of a true knight, will swear
To do her loyal service in the wars,
Keeping his honour pure, his love entire,
And so returning shall demand her hand
In holy wedlock, solemnly I pledge
My sacred word, on him I will bestow her.
The word has pass'd; the holy man has heard it;
Now let him witness and record my vow.

Sir R.
Oh, lead me to the altar; let me swear
In hearing of high Heaven—

Amb.
Be patient, son!
The church is occupied, the choir attends
To chant their office as the form directs,
Whilst Adela invests you with the scarf,
Thereto deputed by the royal sender.

Lady A.
Ah, cruel father, why with this delay
Torture my throbbing heart? Why interpose
To dash my hope, just springing to the birth?
Take me, oh take me to some darkling cell,
There in conventual-gloom let me abide,
Till light and life and Reginald return.

Earl of L.
No, Adela, the father counsels well.
'Twere fit that vows so solemn should be pledg'd
Before the altar; first array your knight
With all the forms that chivalry prescribes;
Then, by the hand of his dear mistress deckt
With honour's brightest trophy, let him kiss
The sacred shrine, and with the double tie
Of love and of religion bind his oath.