 | Adelaide |  |
ACT III.
Scene an Abbey.Enter Adelaide and Emma.
ADELAIDE.
Ye cloister'd walls, whose solemn gloom excludes
The busy tumults of a restless world,
Well could I bury in your deep retreat
The cares and duties of a court for ever,
And give my days to solitude and peace.
EMMA.
The gloom that hangs around this solemn mansion
Obscures your better reason.—Surely, madam,
You cannot entertain so sad a purpose,
You, who enjoy each gift of rank and fortune,
With beauty to enflame a rival world,
And a heart open to the warmest feelings
Of soft humanity; not form'd to follow
The selfish call of lonely meditation,
But active in the nobler exercise
Of mild benevolence, and social virtue.
ADELAIDE.
Ah! what can this avail, even if the picture
Which thy too partial fancy draws were true?
Do passions lead to happiness? The bosom,
To each sensation tremblingly alive,
35
Why was I born to greatness?—O! my friend,
The lowliest village maid, whom humbler fortune
Has kindly placed within the happy circle
Of joy domestic, feels a thousand comforts
That I must never know—she has a mother
To soothe her in distress; a father's counsel
To guide her steps; a brother's arm to right her.—
Have I a brother? No!—for I was torn
From every dear connection, and surrender'd
A trembling hostage to a foreign court.
EMMA.
Yet there were hours when royal Adelaide,
Tho' bred in England's hostile court, bewail'd not
An absent father, and a distant country.
ADELAIDE.
Ah! why recall those days of fleeting joy,
That never must return? 'Tis true, my Emma,
There have been hours when your unhappy friend
Thought herself truly blest—when royal Henry,
By every gentle blandishment, assuag'd
My rising grief, and, with paternal fondness,
Left me no cause to weep a father's absence;
Nor could I in my Richard's father see
Aught but a parent fonder than my own.
But, ah! those scenes are past; and their remembrance
Adds only sorrow to my present fate.—
That once rever'd, once honour'd parent, now
Becomes the fatal object of my fears;
While dark suspicion sheds a gloom of doubt
O'er all his actions, and each mark of fondness
Seems fraught with shame and ruin.
EMMA.
Madam! see,
The King approaches.
[Gentlemen, Soldiers.
36
ADELAIDE.
Royal sir, this honor
I did not here expect—I thought these cloisters
Secure from interruption.
KING HENRY.
Why does Adelaide
Court solitude and silence? Why prefer
The lonely horrors of this sacred mansion
To scenes of brighter aspect?
ADELAIDE.
Ah! the scenes
Of gay festivity are little form'd
To dress in smiles the pensive brow, or soothe
A bosom loaded with oppressive sorrow.
KING HENRY.
What sorrow wrings your breast?
ADELAIDE.
Sir! can you ask?
Am I not here detained a splendid captive—
Kept from a brother's arms?
KING HENRY.
A tie, I hope,
Dearer than that of brother, soon will bind you
To think yourself our daughter, and our court
The centre of your joy.
ADELAIDE.
It will not stain
The modest cheek of virgin purity
To own my bosom entertains that wish:
But I confess the various strange pretences,
By which you still elude the solemn treaty
With Philip ratified, and yet refuse
To yield me to my brother, move my wonder;—
And till that mystery is clear'd, I trust
37
If I seclude my person from your court,
And shun your presence.
[Exeunt Adelaide and Emma.
KING HENRY
, alone.
What can this portend?—
Her words betray mistrust and discontent!
She plainly thinks I form some deep design
Against her peace and honor.—Each precaution
I take against her brother's hot ambition,
And Richard's treachery, seems in her eye
An outrage to her safety.—Ha! my son!
Enter Prince John.
PRINCE JOHN.
I but precede the Legate.—He has enter'd
The abbey gates—he comes to seek you here—
My brother too.
KING HENRY.
What! Richard with the Legate?
PRINCE JOHN.
Yes—He has urged him strongly to impart
The purport of his mission. This refused,
His anxious expectation leads him hither
To hear what is resolv'd.
KING HENRY.
His heady violence
Distracts my inmost soul.—O! that his breast
Possess'd that steady calm, that filial reverence,
That marks your words and actions.
PRINCE JOHN.
Royal sir,
It is my pride, my happiness, to shew
My duty to your orders—Would to heaven
My life could buy your peace!—Alas! I fear
My brother. Yet—
38
Why that mysterious pause?
PRINCE JOHN.
How can I speak? I do not wish to raise
Suspicion in your mind—and yet your safety—
KING HENRY.
I charge you by the duty of a son,
Which you have ever kept inviolate,
Disclose your thoughts.
PRINCE JOHN.
Your wishes, sir, to me
Are absolute commands—all other cares
Yield to the stronger claims of filial duty.—
Know, then, impetuous Richard is determin'd,
Should Rome refuse to free him from his vow,
To quit these walls, and, join'd in arms with Philip,
Again renew the war.
KING HENRY.
Accurs'd effect
Of lawless lust of power!—Alas! my life
Has been a scene of trouble—persecuted
By jealousy of an imperious wife,
And her rebellious sons;—yet thou art true,
Thy faithful breast alone receiv'd no spark
Of thy stern mother's violence.
PRINCE JOHN.
My lord,
Behold, the Legate comes.
Enter the Legate attended, Prince Richard, and Clifford.
KING HENRY.
Holy father,
With reverence that becomes the delegate
Of Rome's imperial pontiff, I receive
Your sacred mission, and with due obedience
39
These long protracted nuptials to proceed?
LEGATE.
Your son to other duties is devoted—
The cause of heaven demands him. He is bound
By ties superior to all worldly claims—
The church expects him now to head her legions.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Behold me ready to obey her summons!—
I only ask a transitory respite,
To solemnize my plighted faith to Adelaide.
LEGATE.
Altho' the church approves connubial rites—
Nay, sanctifies their forms, they must not clash
With her immediate interests.
PRINCE RICHARD.
I am not
The slave of sensual appetite—these nuptials
Are on no private interest urged.—I own
The powerful charms of Adelaide—her beauty—
And yet superior virtues fire my soul.
I own myself her slave—yet fond affection
Is not the only or the strongest motive.—
Two rival nations look with anxious eyes
To see a union which, in common welfare,
Shall blend their jarring interests.
LEGATE.
What's the welfare,
The temporal interests of united Europe
To injur'd heaven?—Behold the sacred fields
By deluges of martyrs' bood ennobled,
Now desolate and waste, o'er-run by infidels,
Who spoil the temples and pollute the altars
Rear'd to a present Deity!—Behold
The outstretch'd arm of vengeance now prepar'd
40
Arrest the awful bolt?—My son, my son,
Let not delusive dreams of patriot zeal
Deceive your fancy; nor beneath the shew
Of public virtue hide the selfish passions
Enflam'd by female art!
PRINCE RICHARD.
Insulting priest,
I tell thee the pure flame that fires my breast,
By virtue fann'd, is what thy grosser sense
Feels not even in idea! [To King Henry]
Sir, can you
Permit this sanction'd hypocrite to slander
The virtues of a Princess you are bound
By duty and by honor to protect?
KING HENRY.
You go too far by such injurious words
To stain the reverend delegate of heaven.
Such insults unaton'd may draw upon us,
And on our guiltless subjects, the displeasure
Of Rome's thrice holy see.
PRINCE RICHARD.
'Twere well for Europe
Had she never suffer'd Rome's presumptuous priests
To interfere, or guide her various interests,
While on our easy faith she builds her greatness,
And rears her empire on the neck of kings.—
But, sir, I wish the holy pontiff joy
Of his new convert.—For the time has been
You were not quite so zealous in his service;
And when you found the growing power of Rome
Cross'd your designs, you mark'd your indignation
Even by her servant's blood—and Becket's murder
Stands in the sacred legends of the church
A witness of your violence.—But when
41
Tho' in a cause—
LEGATE.
Rash youth, forbear—nor thus
Arraign the pious councils of the church,
On love and mercy founded, nor presume
To execrate a crime that she has pardon'd.—
Tho' dreadful was the deed, the guiltless blood
Of martyr'd Becket has been expiated
By solemn rites of penitence and prayer.
PRINCE RICHARD.
By gold and by corruption, rather say;
For which you not alone sanction the crimes
Of sacrilege and murder; but your voice,
With prostituted breath, abets the cause
Of future violence, and sanctifies
Incest and perfidy!
LEGATE.
I'll hear no more
Of this rude profanation!—But, young man,
Mark what I say, and tremble.—In the name
Of Rome's high sovereign pontiff, whose decrees
The Christian world obeys—I will pronounce
Your nuptials void, if you presume to celebrate
The interdicted rite, before your vow
To heaven is satisfied.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Thou dar'st not do it!
LEGATE.
Not dare! Proud Prince, that will be instant seen.
Within these walls I reign supreme. If once
I give the order, here shall Adelaide
Remain the altar's votary—from thy sight
And hopes, cut off for ever.
42
Presumptuous slave! First this avenging arm
Shall free mankind from your insulting tyranny.
[Draws his sword, but is disarmed.
KING HENRY.
Disarm his headstrong rage!
CLIFFORD.
My lord, consider
The consequence of this your rash attempt—
Forbear—what honor can your vengeance gain
Against a priest unarm'd?
LEGATE.
O let his rage
Spend all it's idle force.—By sanctity
Fenc'd and protected, I defy his threats.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Thank not your vaunted sanctity, but those
Whose friendly force my lifted arm prevented,
And gave me time to think.—But 'tis enough—
I ne'er was recreant in the lists of glory,
Nor have I when my honor stood engaged,
Much more my solemn faith, shrunk from the conflict;
But ere my sword shall thus be proudly forc'd
To wage a war from which my injur'd heart
Now turns with indignation, I will throw it
For ever from my grasp. [To the King]
Sir, you may glory
In this your proud ally—The time may come
When you shall feel his insolence, and mourn
The rash resolve that tempted you to raise
The usurpation of a foreign power
To lord it o'er your own, your people's rights.—
For me, I bend not to his iron yoke,
But fly indignant your dishonor'd court.—
43
When thou, and thy proud master, shall repent
The exercise of this officious zeal.
[Exit.
KING HENRY.
He's strangely agitated.—Much I fear
Some dread event from his ungovern'd rage.
Follow, my son, and try to calm his passions.
[Prince John goes out after his brother, and the rest on the opposite side of the stage.
Scene the outside of the Abbey.
Re-enter Prince Richard and Prince John.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Why do you follow me?
PRINCE JOHN.
I come to soothe
Your ardent grief, to mitigate your woes,
By friendship's lenient balm.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Not all the powers
Of friendship, or of love, can soothe a mind
Tortur'd like mine—stung by repeated insult.
My only hope is vengeance! That alone,
Tempts me to bear this hated load of life.—
Ungrateful Henry!—When I led your armies,
I led them on to certain victory—
They have beheld me in the hostile front
Of adverse squadrons—they have felt my arm,
And shrunk beneath the stroke.—Once more I'll bear
My courage, and my fortunes to your foe—
Again my arms shall shine with dreadful radiance
In the bright van of Gallia's rival host.—
Philip will not refuse to own my wrongs,
But crown my service with its dearest hope,
And give his lovely sister to my wishes.
44
What will avail you aught the gift of Philip,
While Adelaide remains in Henry's power?
PRINCE RICHARD.
True, but her heart is mine—nor dare he force
Her present sanctuary—now too guarded
With greater reverence by the Legate's presence.
PRINCE JOHN.
The Legate may be biass'd.—We have seen
How interest and ambition sway his influence.
He may be brought to sanction violence
As well as perfidy—and for the heart
Of Adelaide—
PRINCE RICHARD.
'Twere sacrilege to doubt it—
She is all truth, all constancy, all virtue.
PRINCE JOHN.
It may be so, perhaps—But thro' the medium
Of fond affection's partial eye, her merits
May shine with heighten'd lustre.—My opinion
Of female virtue is not quite so sanguine—
Nor do I know the constancy so rooted,
As not to yield before the immediate prospect
Of wealth and power.
PRINCE RICHARD.
O banish from your heart
The demon of suspicion, whose foul breath
Poisons each generous thought; your vain surmises
Had nearly blasted all my hopes, and led me
To doubt the kindest, and the purest love
That ever warm'd the breast of truth and beauty.
He who believes no virtue can resist
Self-interest and ambition, shews himself
A slave to both.
45
That undeserv'd reproach
Wounds not my conscious truth—Be this the test.
If you are really lov'd—if her whole heart
Is to your wish devoted—if the passion
That Henry entertains is hateful to her,
And that the dazzling charms of proffer'd greatness
Sway not her resolutions, she must know
The abbey's walls yield but a weak defence.
Paint all her dangers to her, and persuade her
To join your flight, and seek her brother's court,
As the sole means of safety and protection.
If she refuse this proof—if here she stay,
Trusting to Henry's power, whatever reasons
Her sophistry may urge, his suit is not
So dreadful to her feelings as she feigns.
PRINCE RICHARD.
I see the horrors of her situation,
And doubt not her compliance.—Ah! too well
I know the fervor of my father's passions,
When rous'd by love or interest. Adelaide,
You shall partake my fortunes—I will place
Your present danger in so strong a light,
That you must be persuaded, must forsake
These fatal cloisters for your brother's court,
And the protection of a lover's arms.
Say, will you share my hazards?
PRINCE JOHN.
In your enterprise
With ardor I embark—Yet let me pause—
Perhaps 'twere prudent not to join you now.
Here I may do you better service—Clifford,
That bastard scyon from my father's stock,
Is to his cause strongly attach'd—His courage
And courteous manners make him popular,
And the few English troops he here commands
46
To lure them from their chief, and win them over
To your designs. When this I have effected,
I will avow myself, and boldly stand
The warm avenger of my brother's wrongs.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
| Adelaide | |