University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Lord and Lady Russel in Prison.
A Table with Papers, Pen, and Ink.
Lady Russel.
Must I intreat in vain?—Alas! my Russel,
Where is thy sweet compliancy of soul,
That made, till now, thy Rachel's voice a stranger
To rude and irksome importunity?
Has life so little to engage thy wishes
Thou wilt not ask to live?

Russel.
Canst thou, my love,
By so unkind a question canst thou give
Such hard construction to thy Russel's thoughts?
Where is there one inhabitant of earth,
If not thy husband, who has every cause
To cherish his existence?—Gracious Power!
Whose wisdom regulates the lot of mortals,
I feel, and with devoutest gratitude
Bless thee for signal bounties to thy servant,
But most for this, thy best and dearest gift,
This lovely virtuous woman; whom to part with
Is now my hardest trial: but from thee,
Dread Arbiter of every human scene!
(However strange to man's contracted sense)
This trial comes; O strengthen us to bear it
With tender fortitude and meek obedience!

Lady Russel.
It is our duty still, and Heaven enjoins it,
To make all blameless efforts to preserve
A life so precious: if thy rigid honor,
In pity both to me and to thy children,
Will stoop to write one line of supplication
To the all-powerful York, he will obtain
Thy instant pardon from the pliant king.

Russel.
Thou knowest not th'inexorable hate
Of that blood-thirsty spirit.—It has pleas'd
The author of my life to let the rage
Of ruthless bigotry prevail against it:
A band of venal or misguided men
Have doom'd me to the scaffold, on the plea
That I have plotted to destroy my sovereign,
Though Heaven and thou, who knowest all my soul,
See the base falshood of the bloody charge:
But to the voice of Law, however tortur'd,
I owe a prompt obedience; nought remains
But that I meet the stroke of stern Oppression
As suits the votary of Public Virtue.
I must not sully, by a base submission,
A name yet spotless, the sole legacy
It is allow'd me to bequeath my children.

Lady Russel.
Dear as I hold thy life, which is in truth
My only anchor in this sea of troubles,
Believe me, Russel, I would rather yield,
Without a struggle yield that precious life
To Persecution's stroke, rather than lead,
If aught could lead, thy clear and resolute virtue
To one base act of weakness and dishonour.

Russel.
Alas! my love, the cloud of thy affliction
Has dimm'd thy quick discernment; but the paper,
Which thy fond care now urges me to write,
Would darken all the story of my life:
I must not, in that story's closing leaf,
Where Fortitude should fix the seal of Honor,
Mar the fair record with a fearful blot.

Lady Russel.
Dear Russel! exercise thy purer judgment;
These are not scruples of thy manly reason,
But niceties of proud fantastic honor,
Of honor jealous to a vain excess.
How can the measure, that my love solicits,
Involve thee in disgrace? Without abasement,
Can injur'd Innocence not say to Power,
Give me the life, of which Iniquity
Has made thy voice the arbiter?

Russel.
Thou knowest,
Dear inmate of my secret soul! kind prompter
Of my best thoughts! it has been long the aim
Of my past life to win my country's love;
Not by the popular arts of vain ambition,
(Which Nature never form'd me to possess)
But by incessant vigilance to shield
Our faith and freedom, by an ardent wish
To prove that patriot virtue, (the stale jest
Of servile spirits, as an empty name)
Is an existing vigorous principle
In minds of English temper. I have fail'd
In the prime object that my soul pursued,
To save our pure religion and our laws
From Bigotry's encroachment; and I lose
My life, endanger'd by that noble conflict:
But I have gain'd, and let me still preserve it!
The kind esteem of this enlighten'd nation:
This I must forfeit, forfeit all the praise
And influence of no inglorious life,
If I become an abject suppliant
To that fierce zealot, from whose iron rod
I strove to shelter this devoted land.

Lady Russel.
No, Russel; the corrupted lips of Faction
Are prone to evil: but the voice of ages,
The sentence of the world, is firmly just;
And by that sentence thou art sure to stand
High on the list of those bright characters
Immortaliz'd with pure idolatry
By Truth and Freedom; men whose very name
Is sweetest music to the ear of Nature.
If in a future age, when we are dust,
Thy virtues can be question'd, it must be
By sycophants, who, flattering royalty,
With slanderous surmises would degrade
Each just antagonist of lawless power;
Or by those yet more abject enemies,
Those sceptics of a cold sarcastic spirit,
Who, judging from their own contracted hearts,
Possess no confidence in human virtue.

Russel.
Affection over-rates thy Russel's merit:
But let this fond opinion of his fame
Preclude thy vain request, which, being granted,
Would but afflict thy love. Consider well
How it would wound thy generous pride, to hear
Thy lord had stain'd the life thou deem'st so glorious
By an ignoble eagerness to live.

Lady Russel.
Believe me, Russel, it would wound me more
To think that, deaf to all my just entreaties,
My husband, careless of his orphan children,
With sullen dignity threw life away,
Rather than stoop to sue for the remission
Of his unrighteous doom.

Russel.
Alas! my love,
Should I implicity pursue the dictates
Of all thy fond solicitude, such conduct
Would but provoke the insult of our foes,
And could avail thee nothing.

Lady Russel.
Yes, my Russel,
Should the relentless York reject thy prayer,
In those sad years of bitterness and anguish,
When, if the will of Heaven is fix'd to part us,
My widow'd soul, with unabating sorrow,
Must dwell upon thy image, and for ever
Repass in thought these agonizing scenes,
It will afford me then a faint relief,
To think my active love, in this distress,
Omitted nothing, that had duty's sanction,
To snatch thee from the scaffold.

Russel.
Lovely suppliant!
Thy virtuous tenderness has melted me;
And, though I could not purchase it by guilt,
Thy peace is dearer to my heart than glory.
Thou shalt not say thy Russel e'er refus'd
One prayer of thine:—give me again the pen
My weak disdain rejected.

[Russel writes.
Lady Russel.
Bless thy kindness!
Bless thy prevailing love! for I perceive
How hardly it has struggled, to obtain
This triumph over brave indignant pride,
Abhorring e'en the shadow of disgrace.—
O thou all-powerful Spirit! who canst make
The meanest implements of mortal use
Thy ministers of safety or destruction;
Grant that this love-directed pen may prove
An instrument of gracious preservation!
Guide thou my Russel's hand!—into this paper
Pour words of heavenly potency to change
The bloody wish of blinded Superstition,
And melt vindictive Rancour into mercy!

Enter Spencer.
Lady Russel.
Kind Spencer! opportunely art thou come
To chear my Russel's solitary hour,
While my keen hopes to win by supplication,
From potent York, the pardon of my Lord,
Force me to leave him.

Spencer.
Ill befall the heart
That melts not at the voice of such a suppliant!

Russel.
Good Spencer! thanks to that unwearied zeal
Which makes thee frequent in thy welcome visits
To a poor captive.—There, my anxious Love!
Take what thy truth and tenderness have forc'd
From Russel's frail and yielding resolution:
His pliancy, I know, will meet with blame;
But those who have a heart to feel thy merits,
Will blush at their quick censure, and recall it.

Lady Russel.
Now let me, Russel! from thy prison fly,
Like the exploring dove, whose eager wing
Flew from the ark, to visit it again
With blest assurance of subsiding storms.

[Exit.
Russel.
My worthy kinsman, when my voice is silenc'd,
As soon it will be, witness to the world
The tender virtues and connubial love
Of that angelic woman!—And, I pray,
As gentleness and honor have endear'd thee
To all our house, do thou, my faithful Spencer,
Attend, with pitying care, my wife and father
On the dread day that ends our mortal union;
Watch them with all the vigilance of friendship,
And soothe the recent anguish of their grief.

Spencer.
Heaven yet, my Lord, may save us from that scene
Of private woe and national distress.

Russel.
Believe me, though I stoop to ask for life,
I ask not, thinking to obtain my suit;
But from the tender wish to mitigate
The future sufferings of a faithful mourner,
By this compliance with her fondest prayer.

Spencer.
The touching eloquence of her affliction,
Join'd to the memory of her father's merit,
That honour'd servant of the Crown, Southampton,
May wrest your pardon from the savage heart
Of sullen York.

Russel.
Impossible, my friend!
My life's the prey that his insatiate rage
Has keenly chas'd—he holds it in his toils,
And every prospect of escape is clos'd.

Spencer.
Yet think, my Lord, that other means of safety—

Russel.
No, Spencer: I have thought, I trust not vainly,
Of the chief object that my mind must dwell on,
How to sustain the trying part to which
The will of Heaven appoints me; how to meet
The sudden stroke of ignominious death,
As may become the man whose life has won
From this brave land observance and regard.—
O Spencer! when the wearied eye surveys
The gloomy face of Earth, the Law's abuse,
And Freedom sinking under savage Power,
The wreck of Public Virtue, the base arts
And treachery of her apostate sons,
With all the countless ills that in her train
A blind and barbarous Superstition brings;
When these are present to the guiltless mind,
It seems a fair and blessed fate to fly
From this dark den of misery and vice,
To the bright presence of divine Perfection!

Spencer.
Yet of how pure a nature are those blessings
This earth would furnish to your rescued virtue!

Russel.
O gentle kinsman! in my softer hours
My heart still clings to those attractive objects
Of tenderest attachment; for this heart
Was fram'd by nature for the sweet enjoyment
Of social duties and domestic bliss.
I will avow to thee, (for thy mild spirit
Can sympathize in every true distress)
That when I think to what excess of anguish
I leave the worthiest and most tender wife,
That with endearing innocence and love
E'er blest a husband, the forbidden tear
Starts from my eye perforce, my frame is chill'd,
And shudders at the sharp divorce of steel,
So soon to fall upon our chaste affection.

Spencer.
Yet may ye live a blessing to each other;
And give a bright example to mankind,
That happiness abides with virtuous love!—
Life stands within your choice:—the King, who knows
With what a fond respect and confidence
The generous people lean to the opinion
Of men so rooted in their hearts as you are,
Courts your acceptance of immediate pardon;
If you will but acknowledge, in his presence,
That you believe no subject has a right,
However tempted, to resist the Throne.

Russel.
Have any of my friends suppos'd, that Russel
Could buy existence at a price like this?

Spencer.
The worthy churchmen, who in this vile prison
Have been your kind assiduous attendants,
Build on this ground strong hopes;—they have obtain'd
The sanction of your venerable father
To argue with you this important question;
Believing they may lead your candid mind
To terms, which, in their cool considerate judgment,
Have the clear warranty of truth and reason.

Russel.
Good men! they are an honor to the church
For signal harmony of faith and practice;
But haply, cramp'd by piety's nice scruples,
Their minds have not expanded to embrace
The mighty cause of Freedom.—O my friend!
I want the spirit-stirring faculty
Of eloquence, to range in bright array
The potent claims of Nature, and enlist
In her pure service all the noble passions
That give distinction to the life of man:
But gracious Heaven endow'd me with a heart
To act the upright virtuous citizen;
And meet the axe, much rather than betray
The charter'd rights of this my native land.

Spencer.
Are you, my Lord, so settled in your thoughts
On this nice question, that no arguments
May shake the airy fabric of opinion?

Russel.
Good Spencer, thou hast known me many years,
And for a man of plain and simple reason;
Which clearly tells me that the King's position,
Once granted, sinks the free-born sons of England
To the tame vassals of a Turkish despot.
My mind can frame no image of a state
That laws have limited, without a right
To guard those limitations; and my conscience,
That higher sovereign, who challenges
My first obedience in all points of moment,
Will not permit me, by a different language,
To purchase life from the deluded King.

Spencer.
With painful admiration I have heard
The steady dictates of your patriot virtue,
That will, with mingled agony and joy,
Confirm the presage of your noble father.
Howe'er he listens, with attentive fondness,
To all that friendly zeal suggests to save you,
He knows, and glories in your firm adherence
To the dear rights of England; nor can wish,
Though with the sanction of such friends, to see you
Exchange it for the lure of forfeit life.

Russel.
Although I trust he fully knows that mind,
Which his fond cares have strengthen'd and enrich'd
With its best powers of manly resolution;
Yet, as ill-grounded and distressing doubts
Are natural infirmities of age,
At times, perchance, my venerable father
May fear lest the approach of violent death
Should with disgraceful pliancy infect
The spirit of his son—I therefore pray thee
Return; assure him, that our pious friends
Must lose their well-meant labor in debate:
My mind's unchangeable; and gracious Heaven,
As my dark fate draws nearer, gives my soul
New strength to triumph o'er its shadowy terrors!
Assure the tender Bedford, I shall meet
The hour of execution as his love
Must wish, with that sedate and chearful brow
Which suits the guiltless son of such a father.

Spencer.
My Lord, I will religiously obey you,
And on the instant; as I now perceive
Your chief heart-chosen friend is come to share
The private converse of your precious hours.

[Exit.
Enter Cavendish.
Russel.
Welcome, dear Cavendish! my eager heart
Has panted for thy presence, keenly wishing
To rest the burthen of its cares on thee.
Yet, ere I cease to live, O let me take
One long farewel of him, whose friendship gave
Lustre and value to that life which fate
Severely calls me to resign!

Cavendish.
Which Love
And Friendship's voice command thee to preserve.—
I come to save thee, Russel! nor must lose
One moment in the heaven-suggested plan.

Russel.
Dear sanguine friend, the fond illusive warmth
Of thy kind heart invests thy eager fancy
With visionary power.

Cavendish.
The fiends of hell
Shall not defeat the project my good angel
Inspires for thy protection!—Swear thou, first,
By our inviolate friendship, and by ties
Yet stronger on thy heart, thy wife and children,
Swear thou wilt grant me one request.

Russel.
Dear Cavendish,
Thou wouldst engage me in some hasty business,
Pregnant with danger to thy generous self;
Else had thy frank affection ne'er devis'd
A bond so needless, to the mind which holds
Requests from thee as sacred as the laws
Of faith and honor:—but explain thy purpose.

Cavendish.
Here, in this happy hour of privacy,
Let us exchange our habits; so may'st thou,
Muffling thy face as in the veil of sorrow,
Pass unsuspected, and elude the guard.
Two of our trusty friends are plac'd to meet thee,
And all the means of thy escape concerted.
Haste, I conjure thee! while I here remain
Wrapt in thy mourning garb; but with a spirit
Ready to burst into triumphant joy,
And mock the baffled malice of thy foes.

Russel.
Brave Cavendish! 'tis hard to quit a world
That furnishes such friends; yet easier this,
Than by a hasty flight from death to hazard
A life I hold still dearer than my own.
No, I can ne'er expose thy generous virtue
To that base fate thou urgest me to shun.

Cavendish.
They dare not strike at me; their venal juries
Have past no treacherous verdict on my head.

Russel.
The eminence of thy exalted virtue
Would make thee their sure victim; and perchance
The latent ruffians (such I think there are)
Who robb'd the injur'd world of gallant Essex,
Would double, in the mind of their base master,
Their murd'rous merits by dispatching thee.

Cavendish.
There is no peril; but admit the worst,
I want not strength to grapple with such villains,
And wear a dagger here to punish them.

Russel.
Friend of my inmost soul! thy generous offer
Yet closer draws those honorable bands
That in our mortal pilgrimage have bound us
Firm to each other, and, defying death,
Will prove to us, I trust, in brighter scenes,
A lasting unextinguishable source
Of pure ambition and angelic joy.
But the kind purpose of thy noble zeal
Thy Russel must reject. Granting thy plan
Free from all perils to thy precious life,
(And it abounds with many most alarming);
Flight, howsoe'er effected, would produce
Dishonour to thy friend, as wanting trust
In spotless innocence or manly courage.

Cavendish.
The tongue of Slander dares not to impeach
Thy fortitude!

Russel.
Yet more: for I will lay
My secret soul before thee.—Thou hast seen
How far thy friendship and my Rachel's love
Have power to make life lovely in my sight;
And my kind father, whose declining age—
But I must pause, and check this natural burst
Of tender gratitude.—Thou fully knowest
All the strong ties that chain my heart to earth;
Yet I perceive these adamantine links,
Touch'd, without doubt, by heavenly influence,
Seem to give way; and my aspiring soul
Begins to covet that ignoble fate,
Which shews so horrible in vulgar eyes!

Cavendish.
And canst thou wish to leave us?

Russel.
O my friend!
Among the strongest passions of my heart,
Perhaps more forcible than love and friendship,
From childhood I have cherish'd an attachment
To my brave country:—though a transient cloud
Now hovers o'er her, my prophetic eyes.
Perceive that she is destin'd to emerge
To happiness and glory. Thou shalt live,
Dear noble friend! to view, and to assist
This blest event.—The death I am to suffer
Will more contribute, than my life could do,
To England's welfare:—in the future fabric,
Destin'd to save and to perpetuate
The sapp'd foundations of her faith and freedom,
My blood may prove a cement; this idea
Sustains, inspirits, and delights my soul.

Cavendish.
Heroic Russel! bright and genuine martyr
Of Liberty and Truth! if thou must perish,
I yet shall wear, engraven on my heart,
The radiant image of thy signal virtues,
As a pure charm, of potency to guard
The lowliest mind from every servile thought.—
Hark! sure I heard the hated voice of York!
Dares he insult imprison'd innocence,
By venturing to approach it? May we not
Move farther off from that detested sound?
It shakes my tortur'd brain, and almost tempts me
To rush at once, and from the coward breast
Of that apostate tear th'envenom'd heart
That guides the murd'rous axe against my Russel.

Russel.
Patience, dear ardent spirit!—Come this way;
The adjoining chamber is allotted me
For privacy and prayer. Come, to receive
The benediction of thy dying friend.

[Exeunt.
Enter York, with the Lieutenant of the Tower.
York.
I know some proud abettors of his guilt
Are plotting his escape; but mark, Lieutenant,
If the convicted traitor in your charge
Appear not on his summons to the scaffold,
Your life shall answer it.

Lieutenant.
I trust your Highness
Will never see occasion to condemn me
For any breach or negligence of duty.

Enter Lady Russel.
Lady Russel.
May an unhappy mourner dare to hope
That gracious mercy guides the princely York
To Russel's prison? At your feet I fall
In my dear Lord's behalf, who in this paper
Implores your intercession with the King
To save an innocent and injur'd subject.

York.
Rise, Madam!—Tell your Lord, that I forgive him
His bold seditious practices to bar
My just succession to the English throne;
But my allegiance and fraternal duty
Forbid me to appear the advocate
Of one whose life is forfeit to the law
For plotting to destroy my royal brother.
In pity to your sufferings, I advise you
To waste no fruitless labor in opposing
That stroke of justice which we all lament,
But which the safety of the realm requires.

[Exit.
Lady Russel.
Thou ruthless hypocrite! thy sullen cruelty
Converts the swelling tear of supplication
To fiery scorn; and my prophetic spirit
Foresees an hour in which thy abject soul,
With more than womanish terror, shall implore
That succour thy hard heart denies to me.

Lieutenant.
O Lady! thy unmerited afflictions
Have seiz'd a stranger's bosom, and impel me
To make some effort to assist thy prayers.
The Duke is merciless, and thirsts for blood;
But pity harbours in our Sovereign's heart:
I know this very morning he has utter'd
Words of kind import to your injur'd Lord:
If, in some happy minute, you could throw
Your sorrows at his feet, they must prevail.
He still is in the precincts of the Tower;
Wait here some moments, and kind Heaven may teach me
To draw him this way yet, ere he rejoins
His pestilent counsellor, the cruel Duke.

[Exit.
Lady Russel.
The blessings of my grateful heart go with thee!
Good angels second the unlook'd-for pity
Of this brave soldier! Grant me power to speak
My Russel's wrongs to the misguided King!
And thou, blest spirit of my virtuous father,
Whose matchless services so well deserve
The kind remembrance of a royal master,
Inspire thy suppliant child with words to melt
The harden'd heart of Grandeur!—He approaches!—
O cruel fate! at sight of my distress
He turns, as eager to avoid a wretch
He dares not succour!—Stay, my gentle Sovereign;
Yet stay, yet hear the miserable mourner
Who claims thy mercy.—Heaven! he hears my prayer;
He stops—he doubts—and his reverted eye
Looks kindly back. Behold, my gracious Liege!
Behold the daughter of thy lov'd Southampton
Prostrate before thee, and yet wanting voice
To utter all the just and ardent prayer
Her heart addresses to thy clemency!

Enter the King.
King.
Rise, lovely mourner!—be assur'd I pity
Your virtuous sufferings; and sincerely mourn
Those hard necessities of state, whose force
O'er-rules the milder wishes of my mind
To spare the precious life for which you kneel.

Lady Russel.
If the bright cherub Mercy has inspir'd
Your royal bosom with a wish to save him,
O let no subtle fiend, with base suggestion,
Subdue that heavenly impulse!—ne'er was monarch
More loudly call'd, by Equity and Truth,
To the exertion of his noblest power,
The privilege to spare.—So may my soul
Find grace before the judgment-seat of Heaven,
As it is sure my Russel never harbour'd
A single thought of blood, or aught of evil,
Against the life and welfare of his King:
Nay more, my Liege; I know his gentle virtue
Has often join'd in painful fellowship
With bold bad men, whom his pure heart abhorr'd,
To lead your child, the young and princely Monmouth,
From the dark paths of their pernicious counsel.

King.
Your Lord is happy in an advocate
Of most persuasive powers: I wish, but dare not,
To stop the course of the offended law
Against the man for whom your tender virtues
Plead with such fervency:—my kingdom's peace
Demands the dread completion of his sentence;
His rescu'd life would lead triumphant Faction
To practices more daring, and distract
The agitated realm with civil broils.

Lady Russel.
Alas! you little know the gentle spirit
Of my wrong'd Lord. But if his life is held
So hazardous to England's peace, my Liege,
O let him pass the remnant of his days
Far from this troubled isle:—his wife and children
Will guide th'obedient exile where you order;
And, if a desert yields him life and safety,
Think paradise is there!

King.
You touch my soul,
Fair suppliant! Let them blame my pliant weakness;
I am not marble, and must shew you mercy.—
Where is my Lord of Bedford—with his son?

Lady Russel.
No, my kind Sovereign;—shall I fly to seek him?

King.
Bid him, with instant speed, prepare a vessel,
That may convey Lord Russel to the coast
Of France or Holland, as our will directs.—
Lady, you little know what cruel bars
Obstruct the willing step of royal mercy:
Kings are forc'd often to do good by stealth,
And such is now my curse.—But let your father
Make preparations for a secret flight,
And wait our pleasure with the prisoner here.
Ere night he shall receive our terms of pardon,
And with them an express, though private order
For the enlargement of your captive Lord.

Lady Russel.
May the great Fountain of beneficence,
The King of kings, reward my gracious master
For this kind promise to his grateful servant!—
O my good Liege! let but your own mild spirit
Be your prime counsellor, to shut your ear
Against the subtleties of cruel zealots;
Tranquillity shall bless your safe dominion,
And loyalty and love support your throne.—
But let me fly to my deliver'd Russel
With these most happy tidings of your bounty;
And in reiterated prayers to Heaven,
For every good on my indulgent Sovereign,
Pour forth the fullness of my swelling heart!

[Exit.
King.
How touching is her love! I envy Russel
Th'angelic tenderness of that chaste woman.

Enter York.
York.
What! has the whining wife of guilty Russel
Pester'd your ear, my brother, with vain tales,
To vouch the truth of that convicted traitor?
Whose death must now be speedy, to secure
Your kingdom's quiet, and your person's safety.

King.
Brother, your Romish friends incline too much
To sanguinary counsels—I abhor them!
What, if in pity to a virtuous woman,
In kind remembrance of her father's merits,
Friend of our exil'd youth, and best support
Of our recover'd throne; what if I grant
Some little mercy to her urgent prayer,
And change her husband's death to banishment?

York.
By Heaven it must not be!—what! when the Law,
That faithful guardian of your sacred life,
Has past its sentence on your prostrate foe,
For base conspiracy and bloody treason,
False to yourself, shall you, in weak compassion
To an insinuating woman's tears,
Thus rescue and empower Rebellion's idol
To form a second more successful plot?

King.
Your hasty fear outruns true policy;
And this excess of rigor, which your priests
Have taught you, bodes, I think, but little good
Both to your power and mine.—You, when you chuse,
May visit Rome; I, brother, am too old
To enter once again on foreign travels.

York.
Nor may we suffer you to fall at home,
Through careless indolence, by Treason's dagger.
Think not I speak from ancient enmity
To this insidious Russel: for myself,
He has my pardon for his crimes to me;
But the regard I owe your hallow'd person,
Leads me to press for his immediate death:
Before the house that bears his father's name,
The house that hid his bloody machinations,
I wish to see the murd'rous rebel die.—
But let us haste from hence. I will assemble
The members of your council most instructed
In this base treason—they will clearly prove
You have but this alternative to chuse,
To execute or perish—One must fall,
The traiterous convict, or the injur'd King.