 | The Regicide : Or, James the First, of Scotland |  |
SCENE VIII.
Dunbar, Eleonora.Dunbar.
Soon shall our short'ned Race of Life be run.—
Our Day already hastens to its Close;
And Night eternal comes.—Yet, tho' I touch
The Land of Peace, and backward view, well pleas'd,
The tossing Wave from which I shall be free:
No Rest will greet me on the silent Shore,
If Eleonora sends me hence unbless'd.
Eleonora.
Distemper'd Passion (when we parted last)
Usurp'd my troubled Bosom, and Dunbar
With Horror was beheld: But Reason now
With genial Mildness beams upon my Soul,
And represents thee justly, as thou art,
The tend'rest Lover and the gentlest Friend.
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O Transport, to my Breast unknown before!
Not the soft Breeze, upon its fragrant Wings,
Wafts such refreshing Gladness to the Heart
Of panting Pilgrims, as thy balmy Words
To my exhausted Spirits!—but alas!
Thy purple Stream of Life forsakes, apace,
Its precious Channels!—on thy polish'd Cheek
The blowing Roses fade; and o'er thine Eyes
Death sheds a misty Languor!
Eleonora.
Let me lean
Upon thy friendly Arm—Yet, O retire!
That guilty Arm!—Say, did it ne'er rebel
Against my Peace?—But let me not revolve
Those Sorrows now.—Were Heav'n again to raise
That once lov'd Head that lies (alas) so low!
And from the Verge of Death my Life recal;
What Joy could visit my forlorn Estate,
Self-doom'd to hopeless Woe!
Dunbar.
Must I then wander
A pensive Shade, along the dreary Vale,
And groan for ever under thy Reproach!
Eleonora.
Ah no! thou faithful Youth, shall I repay
Thy Love and Virtue with ungrateful Hate?
These Wounds that waste so lavishly thy Life,
Were they not all receiv'd in my Defence?
May no Repose embrace me in the Tomb,
If my Soul mourns not thy untimely Fall
With Sister-Woe!—thy Passion has not reap'd
The sweet Returns its Purity deserv'd.
Dunbar.
A while forbear, pale Minister of Fate,
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Let the last Music of this dying Swan,
Steal in soft Blandishment, divinely sweet!
Then strike th'unerring Blow.—
Eleonora.
That thus, our Hopes
Which blossom'd num'rous as the flow'ry Spring,
Are nipp'd untimely, ere the Sun of Joy
Matur'd them into Fruit; repine not, Youth.—
Life hath its various Seasons, as the Year;
And after clust'ring Autumn—but I faint—
Support me nearer—in rich Harvest's Rear
Bleak Winter must have lagg'd.—Oh! now I feel
The leaden Hand of Death lie heavy on me.—
Thine Image swims before my straining Eye.—
—And now it disappears.—Speak—bid Adieu
To the lost Eleonora.—Not a Word!
—Not one Farewell!—Alas! that dismal Groan
Is eloquent Distress!—Celestial Powers
Protect my Father, show'r upon his—Oh!
[Dies.
Dunbar.
There fled the purest Soul that ever dwelt
In mortal Clay!—I come my Love! I come—
Where now the rosy Tincture of these Lips!
The Smile that Grace ineffable diffus'd!
The Glance that smote the Soul with silent Wonder!
The Voice that sooth'd the Anguish of Disease,
And held Attention Captive!—Let me kiss
This pale deserted Temple of my Joy!
This, Chastity, this, thy unspotted Shade
Will not refuse.—I feel the griesly King—
Thro' all my Veins he shivers like the North—
O Eleonora! as my flowing Blood
Is mix'd with thine.—So may our mingling Souls
To Bliss supernal wing our happy—Oh!
[Dies.
| The Regicide : Or, James the First, of Scotland | |