University of Virginia Library

ACT. III.

SCENE I.

Queen, Eleonora, Captain.
Queen.
What from the Battlements hast thou descry'd?

Captain.
Nothing distinct, my Queen—Involv'd in Clouds
Impervious to the View, the Battle long
Continu'd doubtful, 'midst the mingling Sounds
Of Trumpets, neighing Steeds, tumultuous Shouts
Of fierce Assailants, doleful Cries of Death,
And clatt'ring Armour; 'till at length, the Noise
In distant Murmurs dy'd.—O'er all the Plain,
Now a dread Stillness reigns!

Queen.
Then all is lost!—
Why pauses Ruin, and suspends the Stroke!—
Is it to lengthen out Affliction's Term,
And feed productive Woe!—Where shall the Groans
Of Innocence deserted find Redress!
Shall I exclaim to Heav'n?—Already Heav'n
Its Pity and Protection has withdrawn!
Earth yield me Refuge then!—give me to lie
Within thy chearless Bosom!—there, put off
Th'uneasy Robe of Being—there, lay down
The Load of my Distress!

Eleonora.
Alas! my Queen,
What Consolation can the Wretched bring!
How shall I from my own Despair, collect
Asswasive Balm?—Within my lonely Breast
Mute Sorrow and Despondence long have dwelt!
And while my Sire, perhaps, this Instant, bleeds,
The dim, exhausted Fountains of my Grief,
Can scarce afford a Tear!

Queen.
O Luxury
Of mutual Ill!—Let us enjoy the Feast!
To Groan re-echo Groan, in concert raise
Our Lamentation; and when Sorrow swells
Too big for Utterance, the silent Streams
Shall flow in common!—When the silent Streams
Forbear to flow, the Voice again shall wail!
O my lost Lord!—O save him—save him Powers!

Eleonora.
Is there no gentle Remedy, to sooth
The Soul's Disorder; lull the jarring Thoughts,
And with fair Images amuse the Mind?
—Come smiling Hope—divine Illusion! come
In all thy Pride of Triumph o'er the Pangs
Of Misery and Pain!

Queen.
Low—low indeed,
Have our Misfortunes plung'd us; when no Gleam
Of wand'ring Hope, how vain soe'er or false,
Our Invocation flatters!—When—O when
Will Death deliver me!—Shall I not rest
Within the peaceful Tomb, where I may sleep
In calm Oblivion, and forget the Wrecks
Of stormy Life!—No Sounds disturb the Grave,
Of murther'd Husbands!—Or the dismal Scream
Of Infants perishing.—Ha! whether leads
Imagination!—Must ye perish then,
Ye tender Blossoms!—Must the lofty Oak
That gave you Life, and shelter'd you from Harm,
Yield to the Traitor's Ax!—O Agony
Of fond Distraction!

Eleonora.
Ha!—behold where comes
The warlike Son of March!—What, if he brings
The News of Victory!

Queen.
My Soul alarm'd,
With Eagerness and Terror waits her Doom!

SCENE II.

Queen, Eleonora, Dunbar.
Queen.
Say, Youth, how fares the King!

Dunbar.
Fair Princess, hail!
To you my Duty and my Speed were bent—
Your royal Consort triumphs.

Queen.
Lives he then!
Lives he, deliver'd from the fatal Snares
Which had enclos'd him!

Dunbar.
To their Hills repell'd,
The vanquish'd Rebels curse his conqu'ring Arm—
He bade me fly before him to the Queen;
With the glad Tidings chear her drooping Soul;
And bear his kindest Wishes to the Shrine
Himself will soon adore.

Queen.
Will he then come
And wipe the Tear of Sorrow from my Cheek!—
Ah, no!—thy Pity flatters me in vain!

Dunbar.
Let me not dally with my Queen's Distress.—
What were it, but to lift incumbent Woe,
That it might fall more grievous.—By the Faith
Of my Allegiance, hither speeds the King,
By Love attended, and by Conquest crown'd.

Queen.
O welcome Messenger!—How sweetly sounds
Thy Prelude!—Thus, the warbler of the Morn,
To the sick Wretch who moan'd the tedious Night,
Brings balmy Slumber, Ease and Hope and Health!
O wondrous Destiny!

Eleonora.
Thus, on my Queen
May Fortune ever smile.—May Bliss to Bliss
Succeed, a tranquil Scene!—Say, noble Youth,
Returns my Sire in Safety from the Field?—

Dunbar.
Safe as thy fondest filial Wish can form.—
In War's Variety, mine Eyes have seen
Variety of Valour and of Skill:
But such united Excellence of both—
Such Art to baffle and amuse the Foe;—
Such Intrepidity to execute
Repeated Efforts,—never, save in him
My Observation trac'd!—Our Monarch's Acts
My feeble Praise would sully and profane.

Eleonora.
Thy Words, like genial Showers to the parch'd Earth,
Refresh my languid Soul!—

Queen.
The Trumpet swells!
My Conqueror approaches!—Let me fly
With Extasy of Love into his Arms!—
He comes!—the Victor comes!—

SCENE III.

King, Queen, Eleonora, Dunbar.
King
, embracing the Queen.
My better Part!—
My Soul's chief Residence!—my Love! my Queen!
Thou hast been tender overmuch, and mourn'd
Ev'n too profusely!

Queen.
Celebrate this Hour
Ye Songs of Angels! and ye Sons of Earth,
Keep Festival!—My Monarch is return'd!
I fold him in these Arms!—I hear his Voice—
His Love soft-chiding!—

King.
O ye Powers benign!
What Words can speak the Rapture of my Soul!
Come to my Breast, where, cherish'd by my Love,
Thy fair Idea rooted, blossoms forth
And twines around my Heart!

Queen.
Mysterious Fate!
My Wishes are compleat!—Yet, I must ask
A thousand Things, impertinently fond!
How did you 'scape?—What Angel's Hand, my King,
Preserv'd you from Destruction?

King.
Heav'n, indeed,
Espous'd my Cause, and sent to my Relief
The Son of March, who, with a chosen Few,
Deliver'd me from Grime:—Thence to the Field
We speeded, and accomplish'd what the Sword
Of Angus had well nigh atchiev'd before.

Queen
, To Dunbar.
How shall Acknowledgment enough reward
Thy Worth unparallell'd?

King.
Now, by my Throne!
Not my own Issue shall engross me, more
Than thou, heroic Youth!—Th'insulting Foe,
In spite of fresh Supplies, with Slaughter driven
To the steep Hills that bound the Plain, have sent
An Herald, in their Turn, to sue for Peace.—
An Audience have I promis'd.—Ere the Hour
Arrives, I will retire, and in the Bath
Refresh my weary'd Limbs.—

[Exeunt King, Queen, Attendants.

SCENE IV.

Dunbar, Eleonora.
Eleonora.
Renown, to Day
Has lavish'd all her Honours on thy Head.

Dunbar.
What boots it, that my Fortune decks me thus
With unsubstantial Plumes; when my Heart groans
Beneath the gay Caparison, and Love
With unrequited Passion wounds my Soul!

Eleonora.
Is unpropitious Love unknown to me?
To me for ever doom'd (alas!) to nurse
The slow-consuming Fire.—

Dunbar.
Heav'ns!—what are all
The boasted Charms, that with such wond'rous Power
Attach thee to my Rival?—Far from me
Be the vain Arrogance of Pride, to vaunt
Excelling Talents; yet I fain would learn,
On what admir'd Accomplishment of Stuart,
Thy Preference is fix'd.—

Eleonora.
Alas! Dunbar,
My Judgment, weak and erring as it is,
Too well discerns on whom I should bestow
My Love and my Esteem:—But trust me, Youth,
Thou little know'st how hard it is to wean
The Mind from darling Habits long indulg'd!
I know that Stuart sinks into Reproach:
Immers'd in Guilt, and, more than once, subdu'd
By thy superior Merit and Success:
Yet even this Stuart,—for I would not wrong
Thine Expectation,—still retains a Part
Of my Compassion—nay, I fear, my Love!—
Would'st thou, distinguish'd by th'Applause of Kings,
Disgrace thy Qualities, and brook the Prize
Of a divided Heart?—

Dunbar.
No!—witness Heav'n
I love not on such Terms!—Am I then doom'd,
Unfeeling Maid! for ever, to deplore
Thy unabating Rigour!—The rude Flint
Yields to th'incessant Drop; but Eleonora,
Inflexibly severe, unchang'd remains—
Unmov'd by my Complaint!—

Eleonora.
My Father comes!
Let me, with pious Ravishment, embrace
His martial Knees, and bless the guardian Power
That screen'd him in the Battle!

SCENE V.

Angus, Dunbar, Eleonora.
Angus.
Rise my Child,
Thou hast been always dutiful, and mild
As the soft Breeze that fanns the Summer-Eve!—
Such Innocence endearing, gently stole
Into my youthful Bosom, and awak'd
Loves tender Languishment, when to my View
Thy Mother first display'd her Virgin Bloom!
[Turning to Dunbar.
Come to my Arms Dunbar!—To shield from Death
A Parent, is the venerable Act
Of the most pious Duty.—Thus adopted,
Henceforward be my Son!—The rebel Chiefs
Secure in my Safe-conduct, wait without
The promis'd Audience.—To the King repair,
And signify their Presence.—
[Exit Dunbar.

SCENE VI.

Angus, Eleonora.
Angus.
Eleonora,
Behold th'undaunted Youth, who stept between
The Stroke of Fate and me.—O'erpow'r'd, unhors'd,
And by the Foe surrounded, I had sunk
A Victim to Barbarity enrag'd;
If brave Dunbar, to his own Peril blind,
Had not that Instant, to my Rescue sprung.—
Nay, when that youthful Traitor—by whose Arm
Releas'd, I know not, headlong rush'd against me;
My vigilant Deliverer, oppos'd
The fierce Aggressor, whose aspiring Crest
Soon prostrate fell.—

Eleonora.
Ha! fell!—Is Stuart slain?
O! speak my Father.—

Angus.
Wherefore this Alarm!
Let me not find thy Bosom entertain
A Sentiment unworthy of thy Name!—
The gen'rous Victor gave him back his Life;
And cry'd aloud, “This Sacrifice I make
“For Eleonora's Love.”—

Eleonora.
O matchless Youth!
His Virtues conquer'd my Esteem, before:
But now, my grateful Sentiment inflames
Ev'n to a Sister's Zeal!

Angus.
With rigid Power
I would not bridle thy reluctant Thought:
Yet, let me, with parental Care, commend
The Passion of Dunbar.—

Eleonora.
A fairer Garb
His Title could not wear:—But when I think
What Rocks in secret he—what Tempests rise
On Love's deceitful Voyage; my timid Soul
Recoils affrighted, and with Horror shuns
Th'inviting Calm!—

Angus.
Retire, my Child, and weigh
The diff'rent Claims.—Here, Glory, Love and Truth
Implore thy Smiles:—There, Vice with brutal Rage
Would force thee to his Wishes.—But too long
I tarry in this Place.—I must attend
My Sov'reign in his Interview with Athol.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

Changes to another Apartment.
Athol, Grime.
Athol.
What we to Fortune ow'd, our Arms have paid:
But let us now, the Changeling Pow'r renounce.—
Unhappy those, who hazard their Designs
On her without Reserve!—

Grime.
Our Plan pursu'd
A Purpose more assur'd:—With Conquest crown'd,
Our Aim indeed, a fairer Wreath had worn:
But that deny'd, on Terms of darker Hue
Our Swords shall force Success!—

Athol.
Th'approaching Scene
Demands our utmost Art! not with tame Sighs
To bend before his Throne, and supplicate
His Clemency, like Slaves; nor to provoke
With Pride of Speech, his Anger half appeas'd:
But with Submission mingle (as we speak)
A conscious Dignity of Soul, prepar'd
For all Events.—

Grime.
Without the City-Walls,
The Southern Troops encamp'd, already fill
The festal Bowl, to celebrate the Day.—

Athol.
By Heav'n! their flush'd Intemperance will yield
Occasion undisturb'd.—For while they lie,
With Wine and Sleep o'erwhelm'd; the Clans that lurk
Behind th'adjacent Hills, shall in the Dark,
Approach the Gate when our Associate Cattan
Commands the Guard; then introduc'd by him,
We take, with Ease, Possession of the Town,
And hither move unmark'd.—

Grime.
Here, if we fail,
May my shrunk Sinew never more unsheath
My well-try'd Dagger; nor my hungry Hate
Enjoy the sav'ry Steam of hostile Gore!

Athol.
How my fir'd Soul anticipates the Joy!
I see me seated in the regal Chair,
Enthron'd by Grime, the Partner of my Power!—
But this important Enterprize demands
More secret Conference.—The Sword of Stuart
Will much avail: But his unpractic'd Youth
To Doubts and Scruples subject, hitherto
Declines our last Resolve.—

Grime.
It shall be mine,
To rouse his Passion to the Pitch requir'd.—
But soft!—who comes?—Ten thousand Curses load
Th'ambitious Stripling!

Enter Dunbar.
By the King's Command,
I come to guide you to the Throne.

Athol.
'Tis well.—

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

Discovers the King seated, Angus, Attendants.
Enter Athol, Grime, introduced by Dunbar.
King.
It is not well—it is not well we meet
On Terms like these!—I should have found in Athol
A trusty Counsellor and steady Friend:
And better would it suit thy rev'rend Age,
Thy Station, Quality, and kindred Blood,
To hush ill-judging Clamour, and cement
Divided Factions to my Throne, again,
Than thus embroil the State.—

Athol.
My present Aim
Is to repair, not widen more, the Breach
That Discord made between us: This, my Liege,
Not harsh Reproaches, or severe Rebuke
Will e'er effectuate:—No—let us rather,
On Terms which equally become us both,
Our Int'rests re-unite.

King.
Hah!—re-unite!
By Heav'n, thy proud Demeanor more befits
A Sov'reign than a Subject!—Re-unite!—
How durst thou sever from thy Faith, old Lord!
And with an Helmet load that hoary Head
To wage rebellious War!

Athol.
The Sword of Athol
Was never drawn but to redress the Wrongs
His Country suffer'd.—

King.
Dar'st thou to my Face,
Impeach my Conduct, baffled as thou art,
Ungrateful Traitor?—Is it thus, thy Guilt
My Clemency implores?

Athol.
Not yet so low
Has Fate reduc'd us, that we need to crawl
Beneath your Footstool:—In our Camp remain
Ten thousand vig'rous Mountaineers, who long
Their Honours to retrieve.—

King
, rising hastily.
Swift, hie thee to them,
And lead thy fugitive Adherents back!—
Away.—Now by the mighty Soul of Bruce!
Thou shalt be met.—And if thy savage Clans
Abide us in the Plain, we soon will tread
Rebellion into Dust.—Why move ye not?
Conduct them to their Camp.—

Athol.
Forgive, my Prince,
If on my own Integrity of Heart
Too far presuming, I have gall'd the Wound
Too much inflam'd already.—Not with you,
But with your Measures ill-advis'd, I warr'd:
Your sacred Person, Family and Throne
My Purpose still rever'd.—

King.
O wretched Plea,
To which thy blasted Guilt must have Recourse!
Had thy Design been laudable, thy Tongue
With honest Freedom boldly should have spoke
Thy Discontent.—Ye live not in a Reign
Where Truth, by arbitrary Pow'r depress'd,
Dares not maintain her State.—I charge thee, say
What lawless Measures has my Pow'r pursu'd?

Athol.
I come, to mitigate your royal Wrath
With Sorrow and Submission; not to sum
The Motives which compell'd me to the Field.—

King.
I found your miserable State reduc'd
To Ruin and Despair:—Your Cities drench'd
In mutual Slaughter, desolate your Plains:
All Order banish'd, and all Arts decay'd:—
No Industry, save what with Hands impure
Distress'd the Commonwealth:—No Laws in Force,
To screen the Poor and check the guilty great;
While squalid Famine join'd her Sister Fiend
Devouring Pestilence, to curse the Scene!—
I came,—I toil'd,—reform'd,—redress'd the whole:
And lo, my Recompence!—But I relapse.—
What is your Suit?

Athol.
We sue (my Liege) for Peace.—

King.
Say, that my Lenity should grant your Prayer,
How, for the future, shall I rest assur'd
Of your Allegiance?

Athol.
Stuart shall be left
The Pledge of our Behaviour.—

King.
And your Arms
Ere Noon to Morrow, shall be yielded up.

Athol.
This too, shall be perform'd.—

King.
Then mark me Thane.—
Bacause the Loins, from whence my Father sprung,
On thee too Life bestow'd; enjoy the Gift.—
I pardon what is past.—In Peace consume
The Winter of thy Days.—But, if ye light
Th'extinguish'd Brand again, and brave my Throne
With new Commotions:—By th'eternal Power!
No future Guile, Submission, or Regard
Shall check my Indignation!—I will pour
My Vengeance in full Volley; and the Earth
Shall dread to yield you Succour or Resource!
Of this, no more.—Thy Kinsman shall remain
With us, an Hostage of thy promis'd Faith.—
So shall our Mercy with our Prudence join,
United brighten, and securely shine.