University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene the Abbey.
Adelaide, in a religious habit.
ADELAIDE.
My vows are seal'd to heaven—eternal oaths,
Breath'd with religious zeal, have shut me now
For ever from the world, and 'tis in vain
To throw one look behind me—Yet, my Richard,
My lingering heart still breathes a sigh for thee—
It must not be—I will subdue the force
Of it's rebellious feelings, and devote
My thoughts alone to heaven.
Enter Emma.
Come, my Emma,
Thy presence shall assist my weak resolves.
The bosom still will cling to some lov'd object,
And friendship may, without offence, survive
The cloister's silent tomb.

EMMA.
I hope to gild
Your grief with brighter prospects—You may yet
Be free, be happy.

ADELAIDE.
Never—I am now
Securely shelter'd from the gusts of fortune
In this still harbor.—Shall I venture forth
To try again the various storms that wait
To wreck the votaries of a troubled world?—
Besides—my solemn vows are now recorded
In the irrevocable doom of heaven;
Nor can I, if I would, evade their force—
Or could they be revok'd, the injurious wrongs
Of Richard's doubts and Henry's lawless passion—

EMMA.
You have been much deceiv'd—both been deceiv'd—
The wiles of John—

ADELAIDE.
Ah! my prophetic fears
Were then too just.—My heart ever mistrusted
His dark reserve—Proceed my friend.

EMMA.
His arts,
Beneath the mask of friendly care, instill'd
A mutual jealousy between the King
And his too hasty son—This, Clifford now
Has to my ears imparted—He is gone,
By Henry's special order, to bring back
Misguided Richard.

ADELAIDE.
That is now too late!—
Why did my rash precipitation drive me
To breathe the fatal vow which has cut off
My hope of joy for ever—Yet, why mourn
The only step that could ensure my peace?—
O I were weak indeed again to trust
My future happiness to the wild passions
Of one, who thus, by causeless doubt alarm'd,
Threw me with scorn, an outcast from his bosom.

Enter King Henry.
KING HENRY.
Start not, my Adelaide, nor think I come
A bold intruder here; for in my heart,
My wounded heart, I feel, alas! too strongly
A sense of former injuries to thee
And my revolted son.—You turn away
Your eyes indignant.

ADELAIDE.
Sir, the stormy passions
Of scorn, and of resentment, ill become
A mind devoted to the meek profession
Of peace and resignation.

KING HENRY.
That reflection
Redoubles all my sorrows.—'Twas the frenzy
Of my rash jealousy, that drove your innocence
To this retreat; but you may yet be happy,
My son may still be your's, and those mild eyes
Beam peace and safety on discordant nations,
And heal the wounds this fatal day has given
To my distracted house.

ADELAIDE.
It cannot be.
Were I, tho' that's impossible, set free
From these my sacred vows, your son, alas!
Could never be my choice.—The injurious treatment—

KING HENRY.
My Adelaide, you are too good, too just,
To let my errors fall on hapless Richard.
They rous'd his jealousy.

ADELAIDE.
That is past,
Irrevocably past—it matters little
From whom my misery arose—my vows
Are now beyond recall.

KING HENRY.
Think not so,
They may be cancell'd—Rome has ample power,
As well as will, to serve me.—Where's the Legate?
I did expect him here.

ATTENDANT.
The Legate now
Is in the abbey, sir, and waits your pleasure.

KING HENRY.
O bid him quickly enter.—Lovely Adelaide
Retire awhile.—I hope this interview
Will seal your peace.

ADELAIDE.
I shall await the event.—Tho' of the hope
For other peace, than solitude and prayer
Can give within these walls, I feel no presage.

[Exeunt Adelaide and Emma.
Enter the Legate.
LEGATE.
My lord, I come to rouse your tardy zeal.—
Where are the troops, the warlike preparations,
That Richard is to head against the infidels?—
All Europe now is warm in expectation,
England alone excepted.

KING HENRY.
Holy father,
I fear our hopes are blighted in the bud.
The youthful warrior who should lead my troops
To Philip is revolted, and with him,
Threatens our safety.—I have now no force
For distant war, happy if I can guard
My own dominions from their arms.

LEGATE.
Fear not,
I will protect them. For if royal Philip
Presume to join in Richard's rash rebellion,
Or form designs against a realm, whose arms
Are now devoted to our common cause,
I will denounce the church's vengeance on him.
And, should he pertinaciously persist,
Turn the collected force that's now assembled,
On him and his adherents.

KING HENRY.
Yet, perhaps,
There is a milder way to calm this tempest,
And give the nation peace.

LEGATE.
Name it, my lord.
O Heaven forefend, we e'er should have recourse
To violence, when gentler means are offer'd,
Or speak in terror, when the seraph voice
Of mercy may be heard.

KING HENRY.
Then thus, my lord.
Absolve the royal virgin from her vows,
Breath'd in rash haste, and for a time dispense
With Richard's service, 'till his promis'd nuptials
With Adelaide are over.

LEGATE.
Think not of it—
It cannot be.

KING HENRY.
Yet hear me. Suffer not
Intemperate zeal, with over weening haste
To hurt the sacred cause it would support.
You now can have but a divided force.
Consent but to these nuptials, and defer
For a short space the war—that time elaps'd,
England and France united, 'neath the banners
Of my victorious son, shall to it's basis
Shake the proud throne of Saladin.

LEGATE.
Your purpose
Is strangely alter'd since we last convers'd.
But tho' these fickle wav'rings of the mind,
May suit, perhaps, with temporal concerns,
The will of heaven is permanent, and bends not
To the weak changes of capricious man.

KING HENRY.
You will not then accede to my proposal?—

LEGATE.
Never—it cannot be—nay, urge me not.

KING HENRY.
Curse on my crooked policy, that first
Invok'd your aid, and made myself your slave.
O Adelaide! O Richard! O my children!
My cruel perseverance has undone you,
For I have arm'd a ruthless power against you,
And try in vain to shield you from it's fury.
But know, insulting priest! I will not suffer
Myself, my injur'd children, and my people,
To reap the bitter fruits my hand has sown.
I will appeal to England's laws, which oft
Have check'd the encroachments of your haughty pontiff;
They shall annihilate these impious vows,
And join the hands of Adelaide and Richard.

LEGATE.
I smile with scorn at such unmeaning threats.
You and your frantic islanders will dare
To break these vows?—Attempt it, and that moment
I publish Rome's anathema against you,
And your rebellious people. Farther—should you
With sacrilegious insolence presume
To solemnize these nuptials, and unite
Your son with a recluse—your bleeding realms,
While a foul brand lies on their spurious race
For ages, shall lament the dire effects
Of a contested, and unfix'd succession.
And now, my lord, farewell, to your own counsels,
And your obedient sons, I leave the event.

[Exit.
KING HENRY.
This is, alas! the fatal consequence
Of my appeal to Rome. The dreadful weapon
Is turn'd against myself—Thus is it ever
With those who would accomplish rash designs
By evil means—O never let the mind
Of manly firmness seek to gain it's purpose
By means that honor turns from—nor a monarch
Basely submit his own, his people's rights,
To the decisions of a foreign power.
Enter Clifford.
Clifford!—Return'd alone?—Have you succeeded?
Do you bring peace?—Your brow, alas! portends
Some dreadful tidings—speak—Where are my sons?
Say, did you come in time to check the fury
Of John's attack?

CLIFFORD.
There was no cause—the princes
Met without violence.

KING HENRY.
'Twas as I thought—
Did I not augur right?—Did I not say
The prudence of my younger son would justify
The charge I trusted to him—O! I knew
He would not rashly give the rein to vengeance:—
You seem to heed me not!—What means this silence!
Where are my sons?—Do they approach?

CLIFFORD.
They do.

KING HENRY.
Quick let me meet them, fly to their embrace;
And in the strength of my united house,
Laugh at the haughty menace of the Legate.

CLIFFORD.
O! stay my royal lord—for if you go,
You go to ruin and captivity.

KING HENRY.
Your words amaze me! Solve these contradictions.
Did you not say my sons were reconcil'd?
That John—

CLIFFORD.
Is a perfidious traitor!

KING HENRY.
Rash young man,
Do not provoke my rage. I know his faith,
Approv'd, unshaken; nor will hear a doubt,
That envious hate, or jealousy may breathe
Against his firm attachment to his father.

CLIFFORD.
Envious of him? Jealous of his attachment
To you, my lord?—I were, indeed, the worst,
The most abandon'd traitor, if I could
But even in thought, betray the trust you gave,
As he has done.

KING HENRY.
Away! no more of this

CLIFFORD.
O! sir, if my destruction were alone
The fatal consequence of your persisting
Still in this pleasing error, I would never
Offend you with the truth, but calmly yield
To that worst ill, your undeserv'd displeasure;
Lie under the suspicion of employing
The envious arts of secret defamation,
To injure him you love. But, sir, your safety,
Your liberty demand that I should speak
The atrocious deed. Fly from these walls this instant;
You have not here a moment's safety! Know
The princes, with united powers approach,
First to depose, and then imprison you.

KING HENRY.
Ha!—both the princes said you?—

CLIFFORD.
Yes, sir, both.—
As with arm'd heels I urg'd my fiery courser
In the pursuit of John, I met his force
Returning with the rebel troops of Richard,
In friendly folds their mingled banners waving,
But hostile each to you.—I then deliver'd
The terms of general peace and pardon to them;
Terms, which imperious Richard only answer'd
By scorn and indignation, which were blown
To tenfold violence by the suggestions,
And dark insidious hints.

KING HENRY.
O, my swoll'n heart!—
Speak not his hated name, lest like the dagger
Of foul unnatural parricide, it pierce
My bleeding bosom.—Have I thus, beneath
The semblance of the purest filial love,
Foster'd ingratitude!—My fondest hope,
The only stay of my declining years,
Is vanish'd into air.—I feel it here—
With deadly force it rends my breaking heart.—
I sink beneath the blow!

[Falls into the arms of his Attendants.
CLIFFORD.
Sir, look up—
Be comforted;—resume your resolution!

KING HENRY.
Never!—this fatal stroke has kill'd my hopes.—
I have no joy, no consolation, left me.—
My Clifford, I have wrong'd thy faithful service
By causeless doubt!

CLIFFORD.
Waste not a thought on me.—
[Trumpet at a distance.
Heard you that warlike sound?—Sir, they approach—
O! for your own, and for your people's sake,
Consult your safety.—Urge with speed your flight—
The danger presses.—I will face the storm
With the few faithful troops I can assemble,
While you escape.—Ruin surrounds you here—
But could you reach the shores of England—

KING HENRY.
No!
Death is my choice, and I can perish here.
I feel the languor of declining life
O'erwhelm my fainting frame.—My woes, alas!
Will be of short duration.—Happy island!
Seat of my former glory, ne'er again
Shall thy white cliffs rise to my longing eyes
In pleasing prospect—never more these lungs
Inhale the balmy fragrance of thy air.—
France must receive my ashes—yet, my Clifford,
Let not my destiny involve thee—fly!
Preserve thyself, and leave me to my fate.

CLIFFORD.
Now you indeed are cruel—your suspicions
Do hurt me now.—Leave you? and can you deem
So basely of me?—No, sir, I will stay
And sacrifice my latest breath to serve you.

KING HENRY.
O! my dear son, thy filial virtue comes
Like the faint radiance of the setting ray
That gilds the evening storm, to cheer the close
Of my tempestuous days. They soothe my anguish,
And almost teach me not to hate mankind—
My only thought towards life is, how to recompense
Such exemplary goodness;—but I feel
It cannot be—I die!—and leave my power
To those who have destroy'd me—in whose eyes
Fidelity to me will be a crime.—
Oh! I am sick to death;—lead—lead me in.

[Exit, led by Clifford.
Scene before the Abbey.
Enter Prince Richard, and Prince John, with English and Norman Soldiers.
PRINCE RICHARD.
My brave companions, prosperous fortune smiles
Upon our waving ensigns; all who meet us,
Meet us as friends, and swell our growing ranks
With their encreasing numbers!—But these walls,
These fatal walls, strike terror thro' my soul!—
My breast is chill'd with fear—perhaps my Adelaide
Is now devoted to my father's arms!—
Summon the inmates of this dreary mansion!

ABBESS
, at the grate.
What voice profane, so loudly dares disturb
The peaceful sabbath of this holy dome?

PRINCE RICHARD.
Richard of England; who comes here the champio
Of innocence, and beauty.—When the walls
Devoted to religion yield a refuge
To persecuted virtue, they are sacred
From worldly interruption; every spear
Should bow it's steely point in holy reverence—
But when they once become the guilty seat
Of violence and outrage, every claim
Of sanctity is lost; each gloomy cloister
Is by the hand severe of equal justice,
Mark'd for destruction.—Therefore, on the instant
Bring forth my Adelaide, or by my honor,
A soldier's injur'd honor, I will raze
This fabric to the earth.

Enter Adelaide from the Abbey.
ADELAIDE.
Forber, rash man,
Your guilty violence—nor after breaking
The sacred laws of duty, and of honor,
Revolting from your king, your sire, your country,
Wage impious war with heaven.

PRINCE RICHARD.
My Adelaide,
Are your vows pass'd?—Then I am truly wretched.

ADELAIDE.
'Tis so indeed, my lord. But yet remember
Whose groundless jealousy, whose words injurious,
Whose harsh reproofs, disclaiming even the shadow
Of tenderness and love, have driven me hither.
I had no other proof, alas! to give,
That my rejected heart was true to you,
Tho' it refus'd to share your crimes—That virtue,
And not a pageant sceptre, was the idol
That I preferr'd even to your love.

PRINCE RICHARD.
O cruel
And fatal proof, that has for ever doom'd me
To misery and woe!—To see you torn
For ever from me thus—to find you innocent,
Yet know you never can be mine.—Distraction!

ADELAIDE.
[Going.
Farewell.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Ah! do not leave me, Adelaide—
Give me one tender word, one parting look.

ADELAIDE.
Yes—I will speak once more—nay, will confess,
That spite of all the holy vows I breath'd,
Nor time, nor prayer, nor penitence, I fear,
Will ever blot you from my wounded bosom,
Till in the dark oblivion of the grave
Your image and my life are sunk together.
I feel I've said too much—My lord, farewell!
Where e'er you go, may prosperous fortune wait you,
And angels shield you in the hour of danger
With love as zealous, and as pure as mine:
And when some fairer and some happier virgin
(You cannot meet a truer) shall receive
With more auspicious stars your nuptial vows,
If e'er the fervid temper of your mind
Lead you to doubt her faith, O let one thought
Of your unhappy Adelaide come o'er
Your ruffled soul, and tell you, innocence
May be unjusty slandered.—Take my sad,
My last adieu—for we must meet no more.

[Exit.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Stay, stay, my only hope!—Leave me not thus
A prey to deep remorse and woe—She is gone—
For ever gone—and am I left alone,
Amid a world that gives no joy without her.—
Curse on my blind credulity, that mov'd me
To wound her tried fidelity.

PRINCE JOHN.
Why blame
With such asperity the glaring proofs
On which your scorn was founded? Be not ever
Dup'd by the false pretence of female artifice.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Enough of this—I have, alas! too much
Listened to your suggestions.—That dark mind,
Is much too prone, I fear, to judge of others
By what it reads within—Your dangerous counsels
Have ruin'd me.—The only consolation
That now remains is vengeance—Yes, those walls
Shall feel my fury—and, unnatural father,
[Pointing to the town.
You shall partake my ruin—Calls of duty,
And impulse of affection, I disclaim you—
Ye shall not check my rage—Assist me soldiers.

Enter Clifford from the Abbey.
CLIFFORD.
Stay thy ungovern'd violence, rash man,
Nor further tempt thy fate.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Clifford!—Away!
Stop not the torrent of my just revenge,
Lest it o'erwhelm thee.

CLIFFORD.
And is Clifford then
So little known to Richard, that he thinks
His threatenings will appal him? Are the towers
of Mans forgot, where this true breast, undaunted,
Oppos'd itself a bulwark to your numbers,
In our dear father's cause, while your fell sword
Hunted his sacred life. Alas! this hour
Demands not manly courage—'tis not now
That spears and swords must triumph—Here's a sight
To freeze your impious ardor, rivet down
With gorgon look your stiffen'd limbs to earth.
[King Henry's body brought in.
Unnatural offspring of a murder'd king,
Slain by your harsh unkindness!—Parricides!
Look on that corse, and if the seeds of nature
Yet live within your breasts—weep tears of blood.

PRINCE RICHARD.
[Dropping his sword.
O sight of woe—My father! O my father!

PRINCE JOHN.
Ah, lamentable day!—

CLIFFORD.
And dost thou weep,
Perfidious hypocrite, whose cruel treachery
First broke his noble heart—That was the shaft
That brought him to the dust. With manly firmness
He bore his son's revolt, his faithless troops;
Yes, blush ye shame to English loyalty;
[To the English soldiers.
The Legate's insolence, who refus'd to break
The vows of Adelaide; for know, and mourn
Thy haste—misguided prince, he was employing
Each means to heal thy sufferings, while the breath
Of that malignant traitor, which first rais'd
Your mutual jealousy, was then corrupting
Thy faith by new suspicions.

PRINCE JOHN.
'Tis as false
As hell and thee.—

CLIFFORD.
Did not yon awful ruin
Of murder'd majesty, o'ercharge with sorrow
My better spirits, this vindictive arm
Should force thy recreant accents to confess
The truth of what I say—that now is past—
This hand shall never grasp a sword again.
For when I have perform'd the solemn rites
To martyr'd Henry's shade, I vow to give
The remnant of my life to holy duties.
Whene'er you call upon me, I will prove
To you, and all mankind, this dreadful charge,
Not by the doubtful arm of violence,
But by true facts, and clear unbiass'd witness.

PRINCE RICHARD.
If he does prove this charge—and much I fear
It will be so—I shall for ever hold thee
An alien to my blood—unfit to taint
The light of day, and social haunts of man—
'Till then we hold thee prisoner—Injur'd corse,
I tremble to approach thee, lest thy blood
Bursting it's swelling channels, rush upon me,
And mark me as thy murderer.—Clifford, see
The obsequies with reverend care perform'd;—
For I will fly these climes, and you, my friends,
Companions of my guilt—but by that guilt,
Alas! seduc'd—together let us go,
And, on the stern oppressors of our faith,
Expiate our crimes.—And thou, much injur'd saint,
In these lone walls secluded, in thy orisons,
When thou pour'st forth thy fervent soul in pray'r,
O breathe one sigh for a repentant wretch,
Whom the wild frenzy of ungovern'd passion
Has torn from thee, and happiness, for ever.