University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Lord Russel writing, and attended by Spencer.
Spencer.
Quit, my dear Lord, your mournful preparation
For that unworthy fate, which your blest consort,
Here fully prov'd our good and guardian angel,
Has happily averted.

Russel.
When a life
Hangs, my good Spencer, on a prince's word,
Whose resolution is the pliant slave
Of artifice and importunity,
Reason disdains to take into account
A poor possession held on such a tenure.
I can believe the King inclines to save me;
But know how soon his unresisting spirit
Yields to the voice of that vindictive zeal,
Which with incessant and increasing fury
Now clamours for my blood:—I therefore hold it
The part of prudence to leave nought undone,
Which, on a sudden summons to the block,
I yet might wish, but want the time to do.

Spencer.
Useless (though noble) may this caution prove!

Russel.
Be that as Heaven thinks best.—Since busy Rumour,
In his blind haste to catch a fleeting image,
Is apt to form a faithless portraiture
Of public characters, I here, my friend,
Have, as a legacy, bequeath'd the world
A true though simple picture of myself.
When I am gone, my honest countrymen,
Reading this paper, may with confidence
Say, Such was Russel—this account of him
Being as clear from falshood and disguise
At that which, in his hour of heavenly audit,
Must prove the ground of his eternal doom.
Here is my latest task: peruse this letter,
Which on my death the King is to receive!

Spencer.
It breathes that gentle magnanimity
For which your life is noted.

Russel.
At the time,
The solemn time, when the calm soul prepares
For quick departure to that world of peace,
Where enmity and anger cannot dwell,
'Tis surely right to close our earthly feuds,
And part from all men in pure charity.
Though I have never sinn'd against my sovereign.
By any deed or thought that meant him ill,
In many vain and inconsiderate hours
I yet have sported with his name and frailties
So idly, that I hold it decent now
To crave his pardon for such levities;
And, in the gentlest language I can use,
To intimate, that, dying thus unjustly,
I pardon all promoters of my death,
The highest as the lowest.

Spencer.
Cease, my Lord,
To dwell on dying thoughts with eyes that speak
Of life and comfort, your deliverer
Comes, to restore you to domestic bliss.

Enter Lady Russel.
Lady Russel.
All, my dear rescued Love! all is prepar'd
To aid your blest removal from this land
Of danger and dissention.—To your sight
Exile shall seem a kind familiar friend,
Conducting you to safety and delight;
You shall not feel you have a foreign home,
For all your house, who live but in your presence,
Are fix'd to travel with us:—the kind Bedford
Will to the rough sea trust his feeble age
For your society. O had you seen
How our dear little ones receiv'd the tidings
Of this heart-healing voyage! how they pant
To throw their eager fondling arms around you,
And welcome you again to life and joy!

Enter Bedford.
Bedford.
Pride of my soul! my dear, recover'd son!
Again I view thee, with parental transport,
Snatch'd from the broken snares of shameful death
By this blest hand!—In vain thy suppliant father
Had offer'd to exchange his envied treasures
For that superior wealth, which in his heart
Outweighs all opulence:—sullen Revenge,
Subduing Avarice, with scorn rejected
Thy proffer'd ransom. Blank despair had seiz'd me;
But in the hour when human efforts fail'd,
This pitying seraph, in a woman's form,
Brings heavenly aid, and turns a tyrant's heart
To bless the trembling world with Russel's life!

Russel.
Dear objects of my love! I pray you check
This eagerness of joy; for O I feel
That it must prove to you the treacherous herald
Of heavier grief!—your kind exulting hope
Is a brief day of summer out of season,
That, promising to end stern winter's tyranny,
Does but supply to his suspended breath
The power to pierce more deeply:—pray be caution'd,
And with just foresight arm yourselves against
The certain rigour of th'inclement time.

Bedford.
Has not the King relented, and engag'd
His royal word to save and set thee free?

Russel.
Alas, my father! had his word possess'd
That stedfast sanctity which should belong
To the pure breath of princes, this fair isle,
Who trusted in his faith, had never known
Her present depth of national disgrace:
Have we not seen our sovereign's promises
Proverbially invalid?—Here comes one
Whose message will, I doubt not, end the question.

Enter an Officer, who beckons Russel, and speaks to him aside.
Bedford.
O my dear daughter! the high flood of hope
Sinks in my heart, and leaves a hideous void.

Lady Russel.
Speak, speak, my Russel! is it life or death?

Russel.
Patience, sweet sufferer!—Pray inform the sheriff,
Although this short and peremptory summons
Savours of cruel haste, he shall not wait.

[Exit Officer.
Russel.
Ye, whose keen sorrow has more power to shake
The heart of Russel than th'impending axe,
By our pure love let me conjure ye now
To reconcile your grief-distemper'd thoughts
To Heaven's dread pleasure; who, for some high purpose,
Permits the oppressive doom of innocence!
The King has signified he cannot save me,
And I must die to-day.

Lady Russel.
Perfidious cruelty!
But I will fly, and by my loud complaint,
Waking dead Honor in his wither'd mind,
Force from the treacherous King his promis'd mercy.

[Exit.
Bedford.
I yet will make one hopeless effort more
To stop the vengeance of insatiate York.

[Exit.
Russel.
Go, ye kind beings! for the busy love
That finds employment, though in fruitless labor,
Lightens the pressure of the grief it bears.—
Thou seest, good Spencer, that my tender wife
Is now supported by her zeal to save me;
But on my death, the quickness of her spirit
Will work like latent fire within her heart,
A slow consumer of her wasting frame.
It is her fate that wounds me—for my own
Is but the shortest and most easy passage
From earthly trouble to celestial joy.
It is the fancy of the vulgar mind
That foolishly arrays the dreaded form
Of sudden death in visionary horrors:
Believe me, Spencer, in the month just past,
The transient sickness of my lovely boy
Press'd harder on my heart, and more disturb'd
The native calmness of my even spirit,
Than my near prospect of the ready scaffold.

Spencer.
Yet, my dear Lord, I view with aweful wonder
The firm serenity of soul you shew
On this hard test of human fortitude!

Russel.
Reflect, my friend, that my imprisonment
Has made the fearful image of my fate
Familiar to my thought. It is surprize
That gives to Death his most appalling power;
To the clear eye of guiltless Contemplation
That gloomy spectre grows a gorgeous herald,
Whose trumpet sounds the triumph of the soul,
And speaks its entrance on the stage of glory.
How grand! how pregnant with delight and wonder,
Must be the change of scene from earth to heaven!—
What if a mortal, who had pass'd his days
In the dim cavern of a noxious mine,
Worn with hard toil, where health-annoying vapours
Vext and confounded his imperfect sense;
If such a mortal suddenly were laid
On the bright summit of a lofty hill,
To taste the balmy sweetness of the morn,
And, for the first time, see the rising sun
Array this fair and smiling earth in all
The radiant loveliness of form and colour!—
O Spencer! if I felt for self alone,
This period, deem'd the saddest of my life,
Could only fill my mind with heavenly joy;
But for my mourning friends, and most for her
Whose faithful love has many years to weep,
My falt'ring heart—now give it strength, good Heaven!
For even now its hardest trial comes—
My Rachel, in the anguish of despair,
Returns to take a long and last farewell.

Enter Lady Russel.
Lady Russel.
Dear Russel, I renounce illusive hope!
And now must teach my weakness to sustain
The heaviest load of misery that ever
Fell on the bleeding heart of helpless woman!—
The King denies thee, what the basest felon.
Asks not in vain, the respite of a day.
Could'st thou believe it? he and savage York
Are now, like blood-hounds, come to hunt thee hence,
And drive thee to thy death! they but allow me
A few short minutes, in a last embrace
To clasp, to bless, and part with thee for ever!

Russel.
Then may we part as we have liv'd, my Rachel,
In the pure dignity of perfect love,
Unstain'd by weakness!

Lady Russel.
Do not dread my tears;
They cannot fall to melt thy manly firmness,
For Heaven has steel'd me for this aweful hour.

Russel.
Thou dear angelic spirit! 'tis from thee
That I have learnt the truest fortitude;
A courage built upon a heavenly basis.—
O gracious Being! who has guided us
Through fourteen years of pure domestic bliss,
The best and rarest of thy gifts to man,
Accept, as tribute for thy blessings past,
Our meek submission in this trying hour
Of thy more dreadful pleasure!—at thy call
I yield my guiltless life, nor would decline
To die for having struggled to preserve
Thy purest worship in my native land.
O that my blood might quench that fatal torch
Of barbarous Superstition, which begins
To shed once more its sanguinary glare
Over this frighted isle! Might Russel prove
The last to perish by oppressive power,
And the base sentence of perverted law!—
Fall not my blood on the misguided men
Whose fury sheds it!—As I truely pardon
My ruthless enemies, so, Heaven! may'st thou
Take to the charge of thy heart-healing mercy
This my chief care, this dearest, last concern
Of my departing soul, this spotless woman!

Lady Russel.
Let not thy fears for me, my generous Russel!
Too fondly agitate thy feeling mind;
The gracious Power who blest us in each other,
Will not, I know, abandon utterly
An unoffending, weak, afflicted woman,
Dear to so pure a spirit, sanctified
By the kind prayers of an expiring martyr!

Russel.
My Love! I will not to thy care commend
Thy little orphans; for an angel's sight
Cannot in tender vigilance surpass
The anxious mother, who survives to shield
The infant pledges of our chaste affection!
No, let me press a charge upon thy memory,
Where I most fear thy failure, thy dear self;
Regard thy precious health, as the possession
That I enjoin thee to preserve and cherish.

Lady Russel.
Thou guide and guardian of thy Rachel's life!
Though the dark grave must hide thee from my eyes,
Thy gentleness, thy love, thy truth, thy virtues,
Will still, like faithful and protecting spirits,
Be ever present to my thought, and give
My grief-dejected mind new power to rear
The little idols of my widow'd heart.

Russel.
They will have all, that youth requires, in thee;
The gentle friend, the fond, yet firm director,
Whose steady kindness, and rever'd perfection,
Makes discipline delight: their minds from thine
May copy all the virtues; chiefly two,
Of prime distinction, Truth and Fortitude,
The pillars of all human excellence!—
I bless thee now for many years of fondness;
But most for that sublimity of love,
Which has disdain'd to make my fate more bitter
By abject vain complaints and weak'ning tears.

Lady Russel.
Refrain, I pray you, from this tender praise;
It will o'erthrow the firmness you commend,
And 'waken all the woman in my bosom.

Russel.
Dear Rachel! as my boy approaches manhood,
Teach him to look upon his father's death.
Rather as noble than unfortunate!
Tell him, that, dying by no just decree,
I deem'd it still a happiness that Heaven
Made me a native of this generous isle,
Which, though now darken'd by a transient cloud,
Is doom'd, I trust, to be the radiant throne
Of settled Liberty and stedfast Faith;
Early infuse into his youthful spirit,
As the sure ground-work of all manly virtue,
A sense of civil and religious freedom;
Give to his pliant mind true English temper,
Teach him to fear no Being but his God,
And to love nothing earthly more than England.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
My Lord, the officers!

Russel.
They shall not wait.

Lady Russel.
Inhuman haste!—Do thou, great God! proportion
The patience of thy servants in distress
To the infernal malice of their foes!
Since thy unquestionable will permits
Such innocence to perish on the scaffold,
Send the most soothing of thy heavenly spirits
To wait unseen upon the dying martyr!
Take from this hideous form of Violent Death
His horrible attendants, Pain and Anguish!

Russel.
O my kind Love! that quick undreaded stroke,
So soon to sever this frail mortal frame,
Is but a feather's printless touch, compar'd
To this my deepest wound, which now I feel
In tearing thus my faithful heart from thine!
Each moment that we linger but increases
Our mutual pangs; then take in this embrace
My latest benediction!

Lady Russel.
O, farewell!

Russel.
Yet a last kiss!—and for our little ones,
Bear thou to each this legacy of love!
Now we must part!—Farewell!

Lady Russel.
Farewell for ever!
[Exit Lady Russel.

Russel.
Spencer! the bitterness of death is past,
And thou hast nothing more to fear for Russel!
Then quit him, thou kind friend, and be thy care
Devoted to the precious charge he leaves:
I pray attend that dear unhappy mourner;
Place her within my gentle sister's arms,
And sooth their mutual sorrow!—Tell my father,
I should have wish'd to clasp his hand once more,
But that I fear'd to shock his feeble age.

Spencer.
Grief, my dear Lord, denies me utterance
Of all that I would say!—Farewell! my tears
And prompt obedience will, I trust, to you,
Though mute interpreters, explain my heart.

Russel.
Yet stop!—Thy Russel has now done with time,
That heavy load to foolish Indolence,
But active Probity's prolific treasure!
Take then this small memorial of esteem,
This little index of the passing hours;
For thou hast wisdom to improve their value,
And I am entering on eternity.
[Giving his watch to Spencer.
Stay not for thanks! follow thy weeping charge;
Hasten to her support; and Heaven reward thee!

[Exit Spencer.
Russel
(kneeling.)
Thou only perfect and unfailing Source
Of all serenity, all strength, all power,
In thy frail suppliant man! thou gracious God!
I bless thy mercy, which in bitterest anguish
Has fortified my soul, and now dispels
All fearful hurry from my even thoughts!
O comfort thou those kind and tender beings,
To whom my death must prove a lasting wound!
Grant me to pass my little residue
Of closing life with chearful constancy,
And take my willing spirit to thy bosom!

Enter Cavendish.
Cavendish.
Allow me, thou blest martyr! once again
To press thy hand, to bathe it with my tears,
And, in this agony of greedy sorrow,
Catch from thy lips the last command of friendship!

Russel.
My faithful Cavendish! I have but one,
One wish to utter that relates to earth;
And to thy truth I trust for its completion:
Dying, I charge thee, by the love thou bearest
To Russel's honor and our country's welfare,
Quell, in the hearts of all who may lament me,
The frantic passion to revenge my death!
Wilt thou be mindful of this last injunction?

Cavendish.
If I neglect one dictate of thy virtue,
May Heaven, to punish me, take from my soul
The dear remembrance of our amity!

Russel.
'Tis well:—thy promise ends my only fear.
Farewell, my gallant, generous bosom-friend!
Farewell!—still think me living in my children,
Still in their little frames embrace thy Russel!

[Russel departs, but after a short pause returns.
Russel.
One thing there is that yet I wish to say.

Cavendish.
O speak! for every accent of thy voice
Pierces my breast, and all thy words shall live
Graven as laws on my retentive heart!

Russel.
Friend of my youth, I have for many years
Held a prime place within thy noble bosom,
And studied all its rich and rare perfections,
The radiant virtues in fair order marshall'd
Beneath the guidance of presiding honor:
I've seen thee full of high and glorious thoughts
Towards this world; but pardon if I say,
That thy brave mind, to me, has seem'd to fail
In homage to the sovereignty of Heaven.

Cavendish.
Thou godlike monitor! in such a moment
To feel for my offences!

Russel.
Do not wonder
At the calm temper of thy dying friend;
Use thy own spotless and exalted spirit
To commune more with Heaven, and thou wilt find
The blessed habit of considering
That we are acting in our Maker's eye,
Arms the unshrinking soul for every scene.
Weigh well the powers of simple piety,
Make it the key-stone in thy arch of virtue,
And it will keep that graceful fabric firm,
Though all the storms of fortune burst upon it.
Yet farther would I press this counsel to thee,
But time forbids me—Once again, farewell!
Long be thy life, and crown'd with every blessing,
Till in its peaceful close we meet in heaven.

[Exit.
Cavendish.
Smiling he's gone to triumph o'er Oppression
By brave endurance! while my voice, suspended
By anguish, love, and wonder, wanted power
To breathe one last adieu!—While yet he lives,
I cannot bear to be divided from him:
No, I will follow—I will fondly gaze
On the dear model of consummate virtue
E'en to his latest moment; I will see
His heavenly patience meet the murd'rous axe;
I will behold his death, though in the sight
My tortur'd eyestrings burst with agony.

[Exit.
Enter York with an Officer.
York.
At length I have prevail'd!—the traitor dies,
Spite of the weakness in my wavering brother.
This is indeed an hour of exultation!
To all the friends of our true ancient faith
This public fall of her arch enemy
Is a sure omen that she soon will rise
In all her gorgeous pomp of older time,
And from the turbulence of heresy
Clear this recover'd isle.

Officer.
Her fairest hope
Lives in the spirit of your Highness zeal.

York.
Yet this insidious Russel is so dear
To the deluded vulgar, I still dread—
A struggle for his rescue!—Say, my friend,
Hast thou arrang'd our private partizans
At proper intervals to guard the scaffold,
And keep the gaping multitude in awe,
Those resty knaves, who, in this factious land,
Are ever ready to engage in riot,
And hazard life for every bold impostor,
Or subtle demagogue who raves on freedom?

Officer.
Fear not, my Lord! the voice of loud Sedition
Will hardly dare to breathe a single murmur
Upon her idol's fall.

York.
And hast thou settled
A clear succession of immediate signals,
Which may, as Russel drops, transport to me
A quick assurance that his head is off?

Officer.
Your Highness, in the minute of its fall,
Will be appriz'd 'tis fallen by the sound
Of fifes now station'd in this armoury.

York.
'Tis well; my trusty friend, I thank thy care:
I cannot rest till I am satisfied
The heretic has lost all power to hurt us.

Bedford
(entering in extreme haste.)
Yet pardon, yet preserve him, princely York!
I know thy word is able to suspend
The lifted axe.

York.
Away, thou weak old man!

Bedford.
Spurn not my prayer! its object is thy peace
Not less than mine:—by all thy trembling hopes
Of future greatness and secure dominion,
Haste thou to snatch him from impending fate!
If, in these moments of extreme despair,
Thy pity saves my son, thou wilt appear
As the bright delegate of heavenly mercy!

[The fifes sound.
York.
Away! the sound thou hearest is a signal
That the just rigor of the law has fallen
Upon his finish'd life.

Bedford.
O my lost child!—
But he is happy in the fellowship
Of saints, who to his higher purity
Pay blessed homage—his deliver'd spirit
Gives a new impulse to my lifeless heart:
His sufferings all are ended; but this hour,
Which sees them close, for thee, relentless York!
Beholds a train of dark calamities,
The spreading offspring of thy cruelty,
Rise into being!

York.
Go, retire, old man,
And heal thy shatter'd mind: I have not leisure
To hear the ravings of distracted age.

[Exit York, with the Officer.
Bedford.
'Tis not the frenzy of a weak old man
That now proclaims thy fate, inhuman bigot,
Rushing through guiltless blood to thy destruction!
It is the spirit of my angel son!
He for a moment leaves the heavenly choir,
(Whose ready harps shall usher him to glory)
To drown a father's anguish in this vision
Of soul-possessing prescience!—yes, 'tis he
Who now presents to my astonish'd eye
These crowding images!—I see thee now,
Insatiate York! invested with that crown
For which thy barbarous ambition panted;
I see it fall from thy unkingly head,
Shaking with fear's vile palsy!—in thy terror
I see thee sue, imperious, abject spirit!
To the insulted Bedford, but in vain.
Thy power, that highest trust of Heaven, abus'd,
Passes from thee! The cruel blood-stain'd tyrant
Wanders a wretched exile! This wrong'd island
Emerges from the darkness of Oppression!—
Hail, scenes of triumph to all English hearts!
Hail, thou bright festival of settled Freedom!
I see and bless thy firm establishment.
And hark! the justice of a patriot king,
Uniting with a grateful nation's voice,
Turns the base sentence of my murder'd Russel
To a fair record of soul-soothing honor,
And hails me glorious in my matchless son!

Enter Cavendish.
Cavendish.
'Tis past, my Lord! I have beheld him seal
A life of virtue with a death of glory!

Bedford.
And thou canst tell me, dying, he appear'd,
E'en as he liv'd, a model to mankind!

Cavendish.
Never did martyr with more lovely grace
Part from a world unworthy to possess him!
To the surrounding crowd he mildly spoke
A few short words of pardon to his foes,
With fervent benediction to his country;
Commending to the hearts of all who heard him,
A love of peace and purified religion;
Then with a chearful readiness invited
The stroke of death! I saw the unhappy man,
Who with a trembling arm lifted the axe
O'er his unshaken victim, in his tremor
Measuring the neck to strike his even blow;
I saw him raze the skin! and in that moment
The cheek of Russel held its native hue
Unblanc'd with fear!—it was a sight to turn
The grief of friendship to idolatry!
And your paternal sorrow into pride!

Bedford.
Dear Cavendish! I will not wound his spirit,
His gallant spirit, by unmanly mourning:
No, I have pride, such pride as Heaven approves;
Nor would I now exchange my murder'd Russel
For any living son in Christendom!

Cavendish.
Bless this fond firmness of the English father!
It penetrates and chears my aching heart.—
Come, my dear Lord, let us retire from hence,
To soothe yet fonder sorrow, weeping now
In scenes which he has hallow'd by his care,
In his past days of social happiness:
There let us sit, and still with sad delight
Talk o'er his numerous virtues: they shall be
The theme of every tongue! and, ages hence,
Still fix the love of every English spirit!
Then, if the voice of Learning would compare
What rich Antiquity and Modern Time
Have seen of public virtue, while the hand
Of Glory justly in her balance throws
The gather'd worthies of the Pagan world,
England shall boast her own superior wealth,
And poise the rival scale with Russel's name!