University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The great Hall in the Castle of Whitby. Enter a solemn Procession of the Prior, Monks, and Sisterhood of St. Hilda's Abbey, before King Adelbright, who is borne in a Chair of State, sick; King Edel, the Princess Argentile, Lord Oswald, and other Courtiers attending. The Monks and Nuns sing the following Dirge.
[The Dirge ended, King Adelbright is brought forward to the middle of the Stage.]
ADELBRIGHT.
Yet bear me forward; now set down your burthen;
And stand, I pray ye, from me, that the air
Have readier passage to my labouring breast.

Ed.
How fares our brother now?

Ad.
In sooth, King Edel,
Death lays that iron mace upon this shoulder
That oft has quell'd a stouter; some few hours
And he will chill what little blood still creeps
In these lank veins. Nay, do not weep, my sweet,
My gentle Argentile; thy Father, child,
Is going but to where his went before him,
And whither thou, and all, when Heav'n so wills,
Must follow him; yet goes he full of days,
And full of, what this oft misdeeming world
Calls, honour; yet, if honour'd false, I trust
Still unreproach'd; for so his conscience whispers,
And in a voice as soothing as the sound
Of this sweet minstrelsy: Do not then weep.
For tho' thy Father leaves thee, Argentile;
Not fatherless he leaves thee; trust me, child,
While this good man, our kingly brother, lives,
Thou ne'er wilt want a father.

Ed.
By the rood
There borne, that hallow'd rood—

[Pointing to one of the Crosses borne in the Procession.
Ad.
No oath, King Edel,
'Twere here sworn needlessly; couldst thou be false,
As sure thou canst not in some lighter cause,
This, in itself, bears its own pledge of faith.
For Argentile is of that courteous kind,
So all made up of dove-like gentleness,
The veriest churl, if brib'd to do her wrong,
Would inly yearn, and, his remorseful heart
Turn truant to his purpose.—Still thou weep'st—

[To Argentile
Arg.
That do I, Sir, and must; yet not from fear
(I trust my uncle gives my words belief)
That he should treat me (you, Sir, with the blest)
Other than kindly; yet I weep, and must,
To see, what shortly I must see no more,
A father, fondest of all fathers, give
His dying moments to his daughter's weal.
And must I lose him? Heav'n!

Ad.
Such is Heav'n's will;
And, to its high and uncontroll'd behests,
Let all like me give the prostration meet
Of heart, as well as head. Yet will I own
(Had it so pleas'd the giver of all good)
I could have wish'd, or e'er I left thee, child,
To have affixt, with my own hand, the signet
Unto that nuptial treaty which consigns thee
To Denmark's youthful heir; this to confirm
Ev'n now an embassy is on the seas,
If not within our ports.

Arg.
In luckless time
Surely it comes; is this a time to think
Of love, or marriage?

Ad.
Dearest Argentile,
Pray thee forbear to interrupt my speech;
Words now are precious to me. With thee, Brother,
I leave this weighty business. Be it thine
To see our daughter, with the royal dower
That I have left, wedded to Denmark's heir.
To which, if, on thy part, it shall thee please
To add such feoffs as may beseem the worth
Of fair Dëira, reign thou then sole king
Of all Northumberland; and she, with dower
Thus amplified by thee, shall hence to Denmark.
But, if thou mak'st election still to rule
With sway united, we do trust the Dane,
If fame belies not his fair qualities,
Will prove to thee a son, his queen thy daughter;
So shall, in both, the loss be recompens'd
Of us, thy loving brother.

Ed.
Adelbright,
So mercy shield me as I rest well-pleas'd
With this sweet princess, and the royal Dane,
Jointly to rule Bernicia, and Dëira.

Ad.
We like it well; and in full proof we do,
See, to thy hands we trust this peerless gem,
Soul of our soul, our gentle Argentile.
Now let her kneel before me, while these palms
On her dear head seal my last blessing. “Hear,
“Thou Virgin pure! hear, Queen of highest Heav'n,
“A father's earnest prayer! O bless my child
“With length of days, and not one day be dimm'd
“With lack of honour! may the realm she rules,
“In right of me, be blest, and she by it;
“Ev'n by th' allegiance of a well-rul'd people!—
Prior of Whitby, now, all that remain'd
Of worldly care is finish'd; what few hours
Of life are left to Heav'n we consecrate,
And holy rites; bear me, my chamberlains,
Unto the Abbey. Argentile, King Edel,
Oswald attend us to the chauntry steps;
And there farewell; then, at St. Hilda's shrine,
These holy men shall spread my dying limbs,
And sing my requiem; for, at that high shrine,
Old Adelbright doth wish to breathe his last.

[Exeunt the King borne, Edel, &c. attending, the Choir repeating the Dirge.
Manent two LORDS.
F. Lord.
Go, and Heav'n's holiest band of Saints receive thee!
Go, for the goodliest piece of majesty
That ever blest Dëira. Yet, methinks,
Old as thou art, thou dost too hastily
Make this devotement of thy soul to Heav'n.
Had I been thee, ev'n to life's latest gasp
This act had been delay'd, however holy;
If, by such lett, fair Argentile might gain
A surer tenure in her father's rights
Than lip-security.

S. Lord.
Do others also
Nourish suspicious doubts? Beshrew me, Lord,
But I was giv'n to hope the yellow fiend
Haunted me singly; nay, was prompt to chide
My brain for giving the base inmate harbour.

F. Lord.
Nay, my good Lord, suspicions like to thine
Be but too rife; a mean clerk he must be,
Who cannot spell so much i' th' page of man
As may afford him scope to comment grossly
On Edel's late demeanour; and, from thence,
To frame sad forecast of what soon may turn
To this poor realm's mishap. This he may do,
And be no prophet neither.

S. Lord.
Certes, Sir,
Since good King Adelbright took to his chamber,
His brother, vested with the double purple,
Did teach that robe to puff and swell about him
Ev'n to a tyrant size.—But, see, here comes
Lord Oswald, and his honest eye doth borrow
Enough of the hawk's keenness, I not doubt,
To see as far as we do, haply further,
In this black prospect. Health to noble Oswald!

Enter OSWALD.
Osw.
Now mercy shield me, friends, from so much shriving.
What with their vigils, penances, and bead-work,
These priests have worn out our old master sooner
Than he that made him meant. Call a physician,
He'll let your soul alone; let him but plague
Your body, he, good leach, rests satisfied.
But, if you trust a monk with your soul's cure,
Trust me, not soul alone but body pays for it.

F. Lord.
Shrewdly remark'd; but say, my noble Lord,
How left ye the good king?

Osw.
Ev'n as I tell you,
O'erdone with sanctity. Hast thou ne'er seen
A steed of generous blood, when overweighted,
Lag ere his latest stage, which, but for that,
Had paced with spirit to his journey's end,
And neigh'd at his ungirthing? Sirs, I left him,
Just where he bade us, at the chauntry steps;
The lovely princess, over-charg'd with grief,
Was led in private, thro' the garden postern,
Back to the castle by her now step-father.
Pray Heav'n, his sex may make him 'scape the proverb.

S. Lord.
That little word, good Earl, which now you drop
Gives us to think your fears do square with ours,
Ev'n but too nicely.

Osw.
What, for quoting ye
A thread-bare proverb! Troth a pleasant jest.
What, are all step-things curst! my gallants twain,
I find my tongue must wear a closer curb
Whene'er I let it amble in your purlieus.

S. Lord.
There is no need.

Osw.
Nay, be there need, or not,
I scarce shall have the caution. I have ever
Giv'n forth my free thoughts freely, and am now
Too old for closer training. Take then, Sirs,
My mind unmask'd. I do indeed distrust
Our now sole master, with a phlegm as fixt,
As e'er a subject did.

F. Lord.
And I.

S. Lord.
And I.

Osw.
And many more, I trust, right honest men,
Not present at our parley; for myself
Thus far conceive me, I shall closely watch
King Edel's 'haviour; and, if I perceive
From his bleak quarter comes that blighting wind
May nip the blossom'd hopes of Argentile,
I'll be that broad old oak shall shield them from it.

F. Lord.
So doing, noble Oswald, thou wilt prove
Thou hold'st the memory of our good old master
As dear, as, when alive, thou held'st his person.

Osw.
My friends, I lov'd my good king fervently;
These salt tears speak it, for they course down cheeks
Not wont to find them channels, but at times
When the moist dew becomes them. Nature made me
Of her mixt metal, but I trust no base one,
Much more of steel, than silver; yet of this
Enough for honest pliancy; but not
To spin me out, as wire, just as you list.
For tho' you see me now like very wax,
Yet, strive to mould me to a traytor shape,
I'll break before I bend; thus of himself
Old Oswald boasts, and, tho' himself's the boaster,
He wrongs him that mistrusts him. Sirs, farewell.

SCENE II.

Changes to a state apartment in the Castle, enter King Edel leading in the Princess Argentile.
EDEL.
Enough of tears, fair Argentile, enough.

Arg.
Never enough, my Lord, when such the cause.

Ed.
If so, I fear me that the smiles will come
Full tardily, which my parental fondness
Shall hourly plead for.

Arg.
Gratitude, good uncle,
Can dwell with sorrow. Nay, in that same eye,
Where she sits bath'd in tears, can dart a gleam
Will brighten all the face as it were joy,
And yet keep weeping still. I've mark'd it oft
In many a sorrowing maid, whom I have cheer'd,
And wept to see it so, and that too cheer'd them.
Please you, my Lord, I'll to my chamber; there
Kind Editha will give that comfort to me,
Which grief best loves, a sigh of sympathy.

[Exit Argentile.
Ed.
(solus.)
I much suspect me this same simple maid,
Young as she is, and surely all unredde
In the world's craft, doth nourish doubts within her
Touching my tenderness; why, be it so;
I must not for the pulings of a girl
Forego my heart's high purpose; how now, Usher

Enter an USHER.
Ush.
The Prior comes, and craves admittance, Sire.

Ed.
Admit him, and, as thou dost dread our frown,
Ward off whate'er may interrupt our converse.
[Exit Usher.
Enter the PRIOR.
How fares our brother now?

Pri.
He seems, my Sov'reign,
To death no nearer now, than some hours past,
Perchance, or days. He thought, as he approach'd
St. Hilda's shrine, a genial heat spread o'er him
Which cheer'd him much; whether the hidden powers
Salubrious, that in those chaste reliques dwell,
(For many have they heal'd) or whether nature,
Struggling within, had gain'd some little 'vantage—

Ed.
I pray thee, Prior, spare me thy surmises.
Thou sayest he lives, think'st thou it possible
He should live long?

Pri.
That Heav'n's high Queen best knows;
Yet, if he should, his vital force so spent,
It were a miracle, and ought to bring
No vulgar off'rings to our hallow'd shrine.

Ed.
True to his trade, I find the greedy Priest
Looks out for more oblations. I have means
Surer than these to wind him to my purpose.
(Aside.)
But give me, holy man, thy very thought
Touching the nature of his malady.

Pri.
'Tis seated in his breast; for lack of spring,
His lungs play heavily.

Ed.
With such an ailment,
Many have struggled long.

Pri.
And so may he;
But the thick air, breath'd in this peopled town,
Is poison in his case. The cold dense fogs,
We borrow from the sea, our briny neighbour,
Alike augment his danger; were he mov'd
To some wide inland vale—

Ed.
We know thy meaning,
And much approve it; but we fear, if helpt
By such removal, he will ne'er be cur'd,
Nor fit again to steer the helm of state.

Pri.
That, good my Liege, he will not. Other cares,
Of weightiest import to his after peace,
Have long possest him; I, and all that wish
Weal to his better part, can never hope it.

Ed.
Good man! I think thou dost not.

Pri.
No, my Sov'reign,
Your younger hands, helpt by your bolder head,
Will abler rein a nation, so stiff-neck'd
As this, that Providence now bids you rule.

Ed.
We know not that; we know but our good meaning,
Not our ability. But this we know,
That, tho' our brother was in very deed
A nursing father to our holy church,
We will not be behind him in that duty.
Nay we will soon shew this by one bold act
Which he, from feebleness of spirit, fail'd in.

Pri.
As how, my Liege?

Ed.
Mark well my words, good Prior,
Thou know'st the prelate proud of Canterbury
Doth hold a jurisdiction in these realms,
Which, as of right, pertains to the see of York.

Pri.
I know, and much lament it, gracious Sir.

Ed.
The Pope doth favour Canterbury's claim,
And mitred York submits to his behests;
So did our brother too; but Edel scorns
Such mean submission, and will soon depose
York's recreant Bishop, and his pastoral staff,
With ample powers o'er all Northumberland,
Give to thy surer grasp.

Pri.
Your humble beadsman
Is bound, for aye, to crook his aged knee—
Not that I wish—to the high task unequal,
Such proud advancement. What befits the weal
Of holy church, you, and the saints best know.

Ed.
Of this enough at present. To thy care
We trust our brother. But of this take heed,
That none approach him, save thyself, and those
Thou may'st securely trust. Spread too the rumour
That he is dead, and, after fitting space,
Announce his burial; he himself did chuse
Private interment; this will give it credit.
To-morrow, if thou find'st his health still better,
Give me the news. We then will take thy council
Touching his change of place.

Pri.
What if, my Liege,
The better to relieve both soul and body,
We lead him to religious solitude?
His frame of mind will meet us in that matter.

Ed.
It may be well; we'll speak of that hereafter,
But know at present this; each pious art,
That makes of him a saint, makes me thy friend.
Enter USHER.
How now? did we not will we should be private?

Ush.
Sewold, ambassador from Royal Denmark,
Demands an audience.

Ed.
He doth come full soon:
Yet am I now prepar'd to give him audience.
Admit the Dane. Prior, good speed to thee.

[Exit Prior.
[King Edel seats himself in a Chair of State; a short flourish of trumpets. Enter Sewold between two Heralds bearing on their breasts for device the Danish raven. Prince Curan in disguise enters with the rest of the train.]
EDEL.
My Lord Ambassador we greet you well.
Yet, ere ye open your commission to us,
(Of which we wot the purport) it behoves us
To tell you, what the cloud upon our brow
Speaks but too plain, our royal brother's dead.

Sew.
Landing, dread Sir, news met us of his sickness.

Ed.
That sickness was death's harbinger. This known,
We need not add you come in luckless time,
A time, which neither from the piercing grief
That rends our soul, nor for the meet respect
We owe his obsequies, will suffer us
To turn unto that business, which from Denmark
Ye have in charge.

Sew.
Due decency forbid,
Much as my Sov'reign wishes to complete
The treaty, that his envoy should, with haste
Unseemly, press it. If it please your Highness,
We patiently will sojourn here some days,
And wait the fit occasion. Meanwhile, Sir,
Think me not rude, if I request an audience
Of princely Argentile, I, and my train;
That, in the name of Denmark and his heir,
We, to her grief, may that condolence give
Our mutual loss demands.

Ed.
Now out, alas!
Our niece is ev'n a martyr to her sorrow
The lily, broken by the pelting hail,
Is not more sorely shent than Argentile,
Yet say it were not so, our open nature,
For frankness we do hold a King's best virtue
Prompts us to tell you we have scruples, Dane,
Touching these nuptials; nay, for why should we
Mask our true thoughts? we have much more than scruples,
A well-weigh'd judgment, and by that pronounce
Our niece of age too tender yet for marriage.

Sew.
Dread Sir, your kingly brother thought not so,
But, of his own first thought, did urge the alliance
To yielding Denmark.

Ed.
We admit he did,
Yet was his daughter all averse to nuptials,
And is so still. That daughter, by his death,
Is now our tenderest charge. To thwart her wishes
At such a time, nay, when these wishes speak
With the soft voice of virgin chastity,
Would ill become an uncle that reveres,
And loves her virtues.

Sew.
Surely royal Edel—

Ed.
Bear with us, Lord Ambassador, we cannot
Enter at full on all those weighty causes,
That now oblige us to curtail your audience:
Take our best thoughts in sum. On our true faith
We honour Denmark much, and much do wish
A firm alliance with his Sov'reignty.
This to insure, we know the match in question
Is a firm tye; if therefore in a year,
Or rather twain, he chuses to repeat
This embassy.

Sew.
Now by the hopes of Denmark,
The Prince, his son—

Ed.
Is but some eighteen past,
And well may give the truce, that we demand,
To our young niece's coyness. This besides,
Know, we have many other cogent reasons
Here all unsaid, which, when our brother Denmark
Is well appriz'd of, we do nothing doubt
He'll praise our prudence. These, in ample sort,
Soon will we set forth in a fair memorial,
And send unto his court. Blame not our briefness,
The weight of two wide kingdoms resting on us
Must plead our full excuse. Most noble Envoy,
Our seneschalls have it in charge to treat you
As fits your quality; ourselves, alas,
Are all unable, in our present sorrows,
To give you festive greeting. Sir, commend us
To royal Denmark; and a prosperous gale
Spread your returning sails.

[Exit Edel and train.
Manent SEWOLD and CURAN. [Who comes forward hastily from the Attendants of the Embassy.]
CURAN.
By all my ancestors,
I will not hence, till this imperious King
Permit I see the Princess.

Sew.
Gracious Sir,
Vent not in such loud tone your just displeasure,
Should we be noted.

Cur.
Does he think that Curan,
Ev'n for that honour, which he owes his country,
Will bear th' indignity; not see the Princess!
Tyrant, I will! for therefore came I hither;
And Denmark ne'er shall call that errand thriftless,
For which her prince disguis'd him like a peasant.

Sew.
Yet hear me, Curan, or a speedy ruin—

Cur.
What ruin? Sewold, I will own myself
The heir of Denmark, can he then refuse
An instant audience?

Sew.
Ah, rash Prince, bethink thee
Wherefore thou art disguis'd; is't not to hide
The heir of Denmark? rightly didst thou doubt,
That, fair as fame blazons this virgin's charms,
The blazon might be false; therefore this masking,
That thou unnotic'd might'st behold the Princess,
And pass thy own true judgment on her charms.
The veil thrown off, thou throw'st away its use;
And must, perforce, ev'n if she prove most homely,
Proceed to nuptial union; as a Prince
Thou canst not then recede.

Cur.
Sewold, I can;
He sets me the example.

Sew.
Hapless youth!
Have I then all in vain pour'd on thine ear
The love of honour, that, with virtuous thirst,
Still drank it gladly? Has my moral pencil
So oft portray'd the forms of truth and falshood,
In their just lineaments, to thy mind's eye;
And hast thou lov'd the one, and scorn'd the other,
Unbid, save by the voice that bade within?
Thou know'st thou hast; say then, shall one example,
Base as it is, and as thou feel'st it is,
Undo?—

Cur.
Ah, spare me, Sewold, spare the rest,
And let the blush, that tingles on my cheek,
Implore thy pardon. I forgot myself;
Forgot that thou, my master, and my friend,
Heard the rash word—I am myself again.
Yet, Sewold, ere we go, means must be found
To see the Princess.

Sew.
After such affront
Cast on the absent Majesty of Denmark—

Cur.
Nay, Sewold, now thy reason, in its turn,
Meets the mad shock of passion; Edel's fault
Leaves his niece blameless.

Sew.
True; and could it be
That, ere we left th' inhospitable shore,
A fit occasion offer'd, I should wish
Thine eye might make of her its wish'd decision:
That so each nation might, from speedy broils,
Perhaps, be freed; for, prove she common fair,
As is the general lot of half her sex,
I trust thou wouldst not pay, for such a Queen,
A single subject's life.

Cur.
But if she prove
That paragon of charms, that bright-ey'd phœnix,
Which rumour paints her, I will make this Saxon
Produce me other pleas than tender age,
To step between her beauty and my love.

Sew.
What, Prince, if we retire? and near our ships
Rest us encamp'd till her dead father's bones
Be solemnly inhum'd.

Cur.
A public audience,
I think, King Edel ever will refuse.

Sew.
And so think I.

Cur.
I have a plan, my Sewold;
Give it thy patient hearing. In this garb
No Saxon can suspect my quality.
Go thou unto the fleet, while I wait here,
And make my way t' her presence as a page.
Or rather—yes, that is the likelier plot,
I'll change my garb with my young minstrel Rolland;
Thou know'st I can so touch our Danish harp,
As by my practis'd skill to gain her ear.
Is't not a likely plot?

Sew.
What, leave my Prince
With strangers, and, if all like Edel, foes?

Cur.
Thou dost not leave thy Prince, too wary Sewold,
Thou leav'st a minstrel; and what land so savage,
Where minstrels cannot practise their lov'd art
In honour'd safety? All men hold them sacred;
Thy office hardly more so. This besides,
Bethink thee of those truths, thyself hast taught me,
When, in thy lecture, as was oft thy wont,
Thou weigh'dst, in wisdom's balance, what the poize
Of princely, and of peasant happiness.
In one bright scale lay riches, pomp, and power;
In th' other, health, content, and quiet slumbers.
On that side, poisons, plots, assassinations;
On this, security and careless ease.
These last are now my lot. I'm the safe peasant;
And mean to prove, by fair experiment,
That thy sage saws were true. Nay, my best Sewold,
If thou forbid'st me use that good discretion,
Thy schooling taught me, I must say thou think'st
I am no docile pupil.

Sew.
Dearest Prince,
It is my joy, my pride, that I have taught thee
To cope with difficulties greater far
Than this may seem: for as experience taught me,
How seldom princes know to act like men,
I've shewn thee what man is: and therefore led thee
Thro' many an unfrequented path of life,
That greatness scantly wots of: bade thee mark
That plain unsightly plant, call'd Human Nature,
When sprouting forth spontaneous; how far culture
Improves its form; and what the force of art
To call forth its best bloom. How too that art,
Like a too rank and too nutricious soil,
Oft marrs its purpose, turning to vain leaf
What else had borne a plenteous crop of virtues.
These truths to learn, the best the world can teach,
We've pac'd thro' cities, villages, and forests,
Sometimes a pilgrim I, with cockled hat,
And thou the stripling bearer of my wallet.

Cur.
And, in such masking, own to me, my Sewold,
Did I e'er fail to play the part thou bad'st me?

Sew.
In sooth thou didst not.

Cur.
Therefore, holy pilgrim,
Suppose me now gone a short stone's cast from thee,
To crave an alms at some fat yeoman's porch.
“A mite for charity! give you good den,
“A mite for sweet St. Bridget! My old father,
“A pilgrim worn with penances to shrines,
“Half spent with journeying, lies in yonder dell.
“God's Mother shield you! give an oaten crust
“To break our craving fasts,” why this is all
The danger, if you leave me in this castle.

Sew.
Delicate Prince, I own there is not much;
Train'd as thou art, there is not much, I think,
I here may leave thee safely. But not long—

Cur.
But for two little days, perhaps but one.

Sew.
And where shall I await thee?

Cur.
My best Sewold,
Thou know'st, when we did quit our anchor'd barks,
We crost a pleasant valley; rather say
A nest of sister vales, o'erhung with hills
Of varied form and foliage; every vale
Had its own proper brook, the which it hugg'd
In its green breast, as if it fear'd to lose
The treasur'd chrystal. You might mark the course
Of these cool rills more by the ear, than eye;
For, tho' they oft would to the sun unfold
Their silver as they past, 'twas quickly lost;
But ever did they murmur. On the verge
Of one of these clear streams there stood a cell
O'ergrown with moss, and ivy; near to which,
On a fall'n trunk, that bridg'd the little brook,
A hermit sat. Of him we ask'd the name
Of that sweet valley, and he call'd it Hakeness.
Thither, my Sewold, go, or pitch thy tent
Near to thy ships, for they are near the scene.
Nay, to the fleet I'll bear thee company,
And pass the coming night; so will the Saxons
Think we have left their land, then, on the morrow,
With harp in hand, and wallet at my side,
I'll back to Whitby. Sewold, fear me not,
Surest success must crown our ripen'd plot.

[Exeunt.