University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE the Palace.
The ABBOT alone.
ABBOT.
It shall be so—the Queen herself shall be
My Instrument of Vengeance, both on Henry,
And that audacious Minion, who presum'd
To disobey my Dictates. This new Project
Cannot deceive my Hopes: The haughty Eleanor,
Fir'd by those Demons, Jealousy and Anger,
Will set no Bounds to her outrageous Will,
And she hath suffer'd Wrongs that might inflame
A colder Breast. But why recoils my Heart
At Thought of Harm to this presumptuous Wanton?
Why feel reluctant Strugglings, as if Virtue
Check'd and condemn'd my Purpose? 'Tis not Harm;
'Tis Piety, 'tis Mercy.—Will she not
Be taken from a Life of Sin and Shame,
And plac'd where she at Leisure may repent
Her great Offences? This is giving her
Her Soul's Desire.—But Eleanor, not I,
Shall be the Means. Night gathers round apace:
Ascend, thick Gloom, and with thy sable Wings
Veil Henry's Peace for ever from his Eyes!
Enter QUEEN.
Hail, honour'd Queen!

QUEEN.
Art thou a Comforter?
Thine Order calls thee such; but thou approachest
Unlike the Messenger of gladsome Tidings:
Delay is in thy Step, and Disappointment
Sits on thy Brow.

ABBOT.
Oh, skilful in the Lines
Which the Mind pictures on th'obedient Visage,
To speak her inward Workings!

QUEEN.
Thy Designs
Have fail'd?

ABBOT.
To thee I yield the Palm of Wisdom,
Effective Policy, and deep Contrivance;
To thee resign it all.

QUEEN.
Lose not the Moments
In vain Lamentings o'er Mischances past:
One Project foil'd, another should be try'd,
And former Disappointments brace the Mind
For future Efforts, and sublimer Darings.

ABBOT.
Thy noble Spirit may perchance succeed
Where all my Arts have fail'd. I boast no Power
O'er this perverse, this self-directed Wanton;
She seems new-fram'd—her gentle Disposition,
Which erst was passive to Instruction's Breath,
As vernal Buds to Zephyr's soothing Gale,
Is banish'd from her Breast; imperious Tones
Exalt her Voice, and Passion warms her Cheek.

QUEEN.
Whence can it spring, this new presumptuous Change?
Can she assume the Port of Arrogance?
She, whose soft Looks and hypocritic Meekness
Have won admiring Eyes and pitying Tongues,
While I am tax'd with warm and wayward Temper,
For that I have not Meanness to conceal
A just Resentment for atrocious Wrongs,
But bid them glow within my crimson Cheek,
And flash indignant from my threat'ning Eye.

ABBOT.
The Lures of Greatness, and Ambition's Baits,
Are eagerly pursu'd by soaring Minds:
When first their Splendor is display'd before them,
Anticipating Hope exalts their Brightness,
And fires the wretched Gazer, ev'n to Frenzy.

QUEEN.
What Hope—what Greatness—what Ambition? Speak!
Explain thy Meaning, ease the gath'ring Tumult
That struggles here, and choaks me with its Fullness.

ABBOT.
I fear to speak.

QUEEN.
Why fear? Look on me well;
I am a Woman with a Hero's Heart.
Be quick—be plain—thou hast no Tale t'unfold
Can make me shudder—tho' it make me feel.

ABBOT.
Her wild Imagination hurries her
Beyond Belief, or ev'n Conception's Limit;
Safely protected by the royal Favour
Of her great Master (may I say his Love?)

QUEEN.
On with thy Speech—Dispatch!

ABBOT.
She threats Defiance
To every other Power, and all Controul:
Bids me, with haughty Phrase, no more assume
The Right to check her Deeds; exalts herself
Above the Peers and Worthies of the Realm:
Nay, frantic in her fancied Excellence,
Becomes thy Rival in imperial Rule,
And plumes herself on future Majesty.

QUEEN.
The Traitress! but thou err'st, it cannot be:
Thou hast mista'en her Words; her coward Heart
Cou'd not conceive such Insolence of Speech,
Such arrogant Presuming.

ABBOT.
In Effect
All was express'd, tho' not in open Terms;
Hearts so determin'd rarely speak their Meaning,
Lest just Prevention intercept their Purpose:
But thus much, in the Fullness of her Passion,
Fell from her Lips: Let her a while enjoy
(These were her Words) her transitory Greatness!
Anon the Beam may take a different Poise;
The Mistress may become th'exalted Wife,
The haughty Wife become th'abandon'd Mistress.

QUEEN.
Breath'd she those daring, those audacious Accents,
And doth the Wretch survive it? Be it so!
She only lives to gratify my Vengeance.
Ere the vain Dreamer mount her airy Throne,
She shall be taught the Power of Royalty
O'er her own Littleness, her Pigmy Pride.

ABBOT.
You do not mean to see her?

QUEEN.
Yes—I do—
She thirsts for Honour; I will shew it her;
Will deign to set before her shrinking View
Majestic Eleanor, th'exalted Wife,
And with a Glance destroy her.

ABBOT.
All you seek
May be obtain'd by this great Condescension:
Within your Power, beneath your Eye abash'd,
Whelm'd with her Crimes, and shrinking in her Fears,
She'll crouch to any Terms; bind her by Oath
No more to see your Lord; or if you doubt
The Efficacy of that Tye, remove her
From the gay Bower her Infamy hath stain'd.
Perform a holy Work; force her to quit
The wanton Course of her abandon'd Life,
And in some dim, secure Retreat, where you
Alone command, conceal the Sorceress
For ever from the godlike Henry's Eyes.

QUEEN.
Oh, precious Doctrine! learned Comforter!
Continue thus to counsel; leave my Heart,
My dauntless Heart, to execute thy Schemes.

ABBOT.
When mean you—

QUEEN.
Now; this Night—my eager Fury
Brooks no Delay—Thou must advise the Hour.

ABBOT.
About the Season when imperial Henry
Speeds to his Midnight Penance at the Convent,
I will with nicest Caution watch the Moments—

QUEEN.
And be my Guide?

ABBOT.
Devoted to your Bidding.

QUEEN.
But soft—the Means of our Access—did not
This grand Apostate to his nuptial Bond,
Contrive some childish Toy, some subtle Clue,
Without whose Aid Enquiry's Foot in vain
Attempts to find the Wanton's close Retreat?

ABBOT.
He did; but that Device is only practis'd
When public Duties call him from his Realm;
Then is the Minion deep immur'd within
The very Heart of the obscure Recess;
But now that he with frequent Eye o'erlooks
And watches his cag'd Turtle, she enjoys
Free Range of the whole Bower, by few attended,
And none but who submissive yield Obedience
To our grave Habit and religious Order.

QUEEN.
Enough, use wary Watch—and hye with Speed
To my impatient Soul.
[Exit Abbot.
Conceal her! yes,
In that deep Cavern, that eternal Gloom,
Where all her Shames may be conceal'd—in Death;
Atonement less than this were insufficient
To gratify my boundless Thirst of Vengeance.
Long have they revell'd in the mighty Pangs
That rent my Heart—'tis now my Turn to Triumph,
When I behold the Traitor sunk in Grief,
Plaining to her whose Bosom will be cold
To his Distress, superior will I rise,
Proudly exult in his severest Pangs,
Point at her lifeless Corse, for whom he scorn'd me,
And loud exclaim in his afflicted Ear,
Behold the Victim of Despair and Love.

[Exit.
SCENE, an Apartment in the Bower.
Enter ROSAMOND with a Letter, and ETHELINDA.
ROSAMOND.
No, Ethelinda—Never from that Hour,
That fatal Hour when first I saw my Hero,
Saw him returning from the Field of War,
In manly Beauty, flush'd with glorious Conquest,
Till our last grievous Interview, did Henry
Shew Word or Look ungentle—Nay, even now,
Here in the full Distraction of his Soul,
O'er his strong Woes soft Tenderness prevails,
And all the Fondness of unbounded Love.

ETHELINDA.
But what does he resolve?

ROSAMOND.
There Ethelinda,
He gives me fresh Disquiet, Frenzy seems
To guide his wayward Pen; he talks of Life
As of a Load he wishes to lay down,
If I persist in my unnatural Purpose,
For such he terms it. Canst thou think, my Henry,
I suffer not Affliction great as thine?
Yes, let the present Tumults in my Breast
Be Witness how I struggle with Affection,
Stand up and war with Nature's strongest Power,
In Duty and Religion's righteous Cause

ETHELINDA.
And must your Gentleness abide such Trials,
Such hard Extremity of Wretchedness?
Is there no middle Course to steer?

ROSAMOND.
Forbear!
Seek not to tempt me from that proper Sense
Of my deep Faults, which only can sustain me
In this sore Trial; to remit my Fervour,
Were to be lost again.

ETHELINDA.
He'll ne'er Consent
To yield you up, resign you to your Woe,
Unfriended, unsustain'd, to heave alone
The bitter Sigh and pour th'unpitied Tear.

ROSAMOND.
He says he will return to me, and soon;
Then paints the Anguish of his bleeding Heart,
In unconnected Phrase and broken Periods;
Adjures me, by our Loves, no more to urge
The hard Request on which his Life depends.
Oh, did I ever think I could refuse
What Henry ask'd—but this—It must not be—
Lend me thy Arm, my Friend, a sudden Faintness
Comes o'er me, and instinctive Boadings whisper
I shall not long survive my Henry's Loss.

ETHELINDA.
Oh, chide them from you! at the sad Idea
My Sorrows stream afresh.

ROSAMOND.
Weep not for that,
'Tis my best Comfort. In the Grave alone
Can I find true Repose, that quiet Haven,
Whereto the wretched Voyager in Life,
Whose little helpless Bark long Time hath strove
'Gainst the rude Beatings of tumultuous Guilt,
Oft casts an ardent Look, an eager Wish,
To gain a Shelter there from future Storms.

ETHELINDA.
Let me conduct thee to the cheering Breeze,
Thy Looks are pale.

ROSAMOND.
Oh thou, that art all Mercy,
[Kneels.
Look down, indulgent, on the Child of Frailty;
With Pity view her Errors, and instruct her
How to obtain returning Peace and Pardon.

Enter CLIFFORD in his Disguise.
CLIFFORD.
Stay thee, fair Mourner, wherefore dost thou shun
The Messenger of Comfort?

ROSAMOND.
Ethelinda!
What Voice was that? My startled Fancy wakes
New Terrors! Yet it cannot be—

CLIFFORD.
My Daughter!—

ROSAMOND.
All gracious Heaven! 'tis he—

[Faints.
CLIFFORD.
Oh, let me clasp her
To a fond Father's aged Breast, and call
Her sinking Spirit from the Shades of Death.

ETHELINDA.
Oh, reverend Stranger, if thou be'st her Father,
With gentle Voice allure her; do not cast
The Frown of Anger on her meek Distress,
Her Softness cannot bear it.

CLIFFORD.
Fear not, Virgin!
Assist to raise her—the returning Blood
Faintly renews its Course! her timid Eye
Speaks painful Apprehension.

ROSAMOND.
Where is fled,
That rev'rend Form? even now it hover'd o'er me,
Sent by kind Heav'n, the sacred Delegate
Of Comfort and Protection.

CLIFFORD.
Rosamond!
Oh! turn not from me—do not shun my Sight,
In Pity shrink not from a Father's Eye,
Who comes to chace thy Sorrows; comes to shed
Some pious Drops o'er thy afflicted Heart,
Ere he is mingled with the Dust.

ROSAMOND.
Thus lowly
Bent to the Earth, with abject Eye, that dares not
Look up to that much injur'd rev'rend Face,
Let me implore thy Pardon.

CLIFFORD.
Rise, my Child,
Oh rise and let me gaze on that lov'd Form,
Which once was all my Comfort.

ROSAMOND.
But which now
You look upon with Anger and Disgust.
My Crimes deserve it all.

CLIFFORD.
Nay, meet my Eye—
Survey me well: Dost thou behold therein
A rigid Judge? Oh no, the Father melts
In these fast-streaming Tears.

ROSAMOND.
Has pitying Heaven
Heard the sad Prayer of such a guilty Wretch,
And granted, in the Moment of Affliction,
A Parent's Presence, and returning Blessing,
To his repentant Child!

CLIFFORD.
Dost thou repent?—
And didst thou wish once more to see thy Father?
Dry up thy Tears, and answer me with Firmness;
Dost thou repent?—Hast thou the Fortitude
To break the fatal Tye that link'd thy Soul
To lawless Love, and all its false Allurements?
Canst thou look up, with steady Resolution,
To that great Power who loves repentant Hearts,
And say thou wilt no more transgress?

ROSAMOND.
I can,
I can, my Father; that all-seeing Power,
To whom thou hast appeal'd, can witness for me,
I have renounc'd the Paths of Sin and Shame,
And mean to spend my sad Remains of Life
In deep Contrition for my past Offences.

CLIFFORD.
To find thee thus, is Rapture to my Soul!
Enter my Breast, and take again Possession
Of all the Fondness that I ever bore thee.
By my best Hopes, when in thy smiling Youth
Mine Eye hath hung enamour'd on thy Charms,
Thou shew'dst not then so lovelily as now,
Dress'd in those graceful penitential Tears.

ROSAMOND.
Oh, my Father!
And may I still look up to thee with Hope
That the dear Love and Tenderness, thy Breast
Once cherish'd for thy darling Rosamond,
Is not extinguish'd quite?

CLIFFORD.
Alas, my Child!
I am not lost to Nature and her Ties.
We are all frail; preach Stoicks how they will,
'Tis not a Parent's Duty to cast off,
But to reclaim, the Wand'rer of his Blood.
One Question more, on that depends my Peace—
Shall I behold my Child redeem'd from Shame,
Or must I sink with Sorrow to the Grave,
Ere this great Bus'ness of my Soul's accomplish'd?

ROSAMOND.
Command my Heart; can I, thus lost to Goodness,
Assuage thy Cares, and soften the Decline
Of weary Nature? say, my dearest Father,
And by the Zeal of my Obedience, prove
The Truth of my Contrition.

CLIFFORD.
Hear me then,
Thou darling of my Bosom!—Westward hence,
On the slow Rising of a fertile Hill,
A virtuous Dame, of honourable Race,
Hath founded and endow'd a hallow'd Mansion
To pure Devotion's Purposes assign'd.
No Sound disturbs the Quiet of the Place,
Save of the bleating Flocks and lowing Herds,
And the meek Murmurs of the trilling Stream
That flows sweet-winding thro' the Vale beneath;
No Objects intercept the Gazer's Eye,
But the neat Cots of neighb'ring Villagers,
Whose lowly Roofs afford a pleasing Scene
Of modest Resignation and Content.
There Piety, enamour'd of the Spot,
Resides; there she inspires her holy Fervour,
Mild, not austere; such Piety, as looks
With soft Compassion upon human Frailty,
And sooths the Pilgrim-Sinner to embrace
Repentant Peace beneath her holy Roof.—
Say, wilt thou quit, for such serene Delights,
This gay Abode of Shame?

ROSAMOND.
I will, my Father;
My Wish invites to such a soft Retreat.
Oh, lead me forth!

CLIFFORD.
Thy Words give added Strength
To my weak Frame, and warm my languid Blood.
Some two Hours hence, when Midnight veils the Globe,
Disguis'd, as now, in this religious Garb,
Again expect me, to redeem thee hence,
And guide thy Steps to that Abode of Bliss—
Here break we off—

ROSAMOND.
Once more thy Blessing on me,
While I pour forth the silent Gratitude
Of my full Soul for thy returning Love.

CLIFFORD.
Warm as thy Soul can wish, my Child, receive it.
Oh, the supreme Delight 'twill be, to see thee
Restor'd to holy Peace and soft Content,
And sometimes share thy Converse; then devote
My lonely Intervals to ceaseless Prayer,
That Heaven will pour on thy repentant Heart
Its healing Mercy, and its promis'd Grace!

[Exit.
ROSAMOND.
Propitious Power, who chear'st the Mourner's Spirit,
Accept my boundless Thanks—thy pitying Goodness
Inspir'd my Father's Heart, and sent him hither
To succour and sustain me. Oh, continue
Thy strength'ning Fervour, that I may not shrink
From the great Task I have begun, but rise
An Object worthy thy returning Grace!

ETHELINDA.
My gentle Mistress, I partake your Transport,
Yet Apprehension checks the rising Joy.
What Agonies will pierce your Henry's Heart—

ROSAMOND.
Peace, on thy Life! seek not to wake again
Those Thoughts which I must hush within my Breast;
The Lover is forgot; what Clifford's Daughter
Leaves unperform'd, Clifford himself will perfect.
That Tongue, whose wholesome Counsels Henry wont,
In early Life, to listen and obey.
That Heart, which lov'd his Virtues, will again
Exert its Power, and win him to applaud
The Minister of Peace, who leads me hence
To that Asylum my Offences claim.