University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Osbert and Osric.
Osbert.
Still living—and so near me?—O, the rapture!—
The dear distress'd!—Will you then plead my pardon?
Will you not tell her—nay, enforce it, Osric;
Pour all the abundance of my soul before her—
Tell her, her safety lies within these walls;
My crown is hers, my life her best protection.

Osric.
Mean you to wed her, then?

Osbert.
Would'st thou not, my friend,
Aspire at Heaven, if distance did not bar thee?
Wed her!—yes, Osric—for a single day,
An hour of bliss in her society,
I'd barter every year of life to come—
But, O my crime—that outrage on her honour!—
Her peace, her beauty, and her spotless innocence,
Rent and polluted by my brutal passion!—
What shall I plead?—Pardon she never can—
Tell her, in that, we are already wedded;
For Osbert hates himself.

Osric.
I will, my lord.

Osbert.
Nay, but this night—this very night, my Osric!—
Fate may dispose the morrow to another.
Tell her this instant hour stands singly up
'Twixt life and death, time and eternity,
Connubial honour and the blot of ages!
Away—my peace attends on thy return!—
Some angel sit upon thy charmed tongue,
And teach thy breath persuasion.
[Exit Osbert.

Osric.
Rowena married, and a queen!—'tis well—
The foe expell'd, my prince return'd to virtue,
Her honour rescued, and his fault forgotten!—
But, Edwin!—there's the gulph—this dread prediction!
For Osbert wedded, then becomes at once
His king, and father; so may fate be answer'd!—
'Tis but in man, throughout the maze of life,
To mark the clue of his peculiar duty—
'Tis Heaven's to wind and guide the thread at pleasure.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter Westmorland and Ethelwald.
Ethel.
I swear it is too much—Again permit me
To gaze, to feast my sight—again fall prostrate—
[Kneels.
To kiss the steps of my reviving lord—
My lord, my long lost lord—to touch, to clasp him,
That every sense may swear—'tis he, indeed;
And not some phantom of illusive joy,
That would abuse his servant!

West.
To my arms—
To your returning master, rise, my friend,
My long tried Ethelwald!

Ethel.
Dead! wept! entomb'd!—
Your solemn trophy rais'd!—all the sad rites,
Of dirge, and mournful obsequy!—yet thus,
To see, to feel, that things impossible
Appeal to demonstration!

West.
List, my friend,
And lose thy wonder.—
Fame says, that, on the eve of holy-cross,
Cover'd with wounds, along the blood-stain'd bank
Of southern Tyne, thy hapless master fell.
He fell, indeed!—confusion followed straight,
And rout, and darkness, that dispers'd alike
Victor, and vanquish'd. Yet, not so retired
One faithful soldier—he, o'er heaps of dead,
Sat mournful, till the moon should lift her lamp,
To light him to his lord, whom soon he found—
From my pale head he loos'd the mangled casque;
And, bending o'er me, thro' the silent night
Pour'd forth his loud affliction. To his plaint,
And the cool fresh, I rais'd my ponderous lids,
Then sunk again—Transported, all in haste
He stript my arms, and on a headless trunk
Bestow'd the rich endowment; bound my wounds,
And, with a sinewy, and a dear embrace,
Upborn, convey'd me from the field of death,
To a near hamlet.

Ethel.
Pay him, bounteous Heaven!—
Let me not taste of death, till I become
A servant to that servant!

West.
Sense, and health,
With time, return'd; till when, I held my secret.
Then did I give my fortune to the winds,
That threw me on the Dane—him long I serv'd,
Led forth his battles, and enlarged his bounds;
And, in return, he comes, my soldier now,
To free my country, and to right my quarrel.

Ethel.
Alas! my master, is it in thy leading,
That such a host of foes comes banded onward,
To lay fair Albion waste?

West.
No, Ethelwald—
My soldiers step as though on holy ground,
Smooth as a mist that moves upon the morning,
Dropping kind dew on every head, save one—
For there our vengeance levels—he, your king!—
Your precious Osbert!—lives he?

Ethel.
He does.

West.
Thank Heaven for that—O, snatch him not, ye fiends!
Set him but first within my reach of sight,
And if he scape this arm—live, Osbert, live!—
Bow, world, before thy lord—for he's immortal!—

SCENE III.

Enter Hubba.
Hub.
I have traced and found thee, Westmorland!—O friend,
Does this beseem the general of our armies—
Thus to forsake his camp, alone, unguarded;
And cast his valued person on the edge
Of danger, and of darkness?

West.
O, my Hubba,
There is, there is a cause!—

Hub.
Wherefore that sigh,
When fame, when friendship, and when Denmark wait,
But till the morrow's sun shall light the world,
To give Northumbria's scepter to your hand,
And crown your arms with conquest?

West.
O friend, friend!
My steps have long been strangers to ambition—
I seek not fame, nor royalty.

Hub.
How, Westmorland!
What else is worthy of a warrior's notice?

West.
Vengeance.

Hub.
Vengeance?

West.
Vengeance, my royal friend!—O, generous Hubba,
Oft was I on the point to tell thee all,
To pour my anguish in thy friendly bosom—
But shame withheld the tale.

Hub.
Long have I mark'd
The labours of thy soul, the big emotion;
But fear'd to ask, although I wish'd to ease thee.

West.
The hour is come that must reveal my wrongs,
Loud as their cry for justice—List, my friend,
It is a grievous tale—I once was held,
Fair, brave, and young, the hope of my loved country,
Her first in arms, and honour'd as her king.
Upon a time, I saw a noble maid,
Daughter and heiress to the earl of Devon;
I saw, I loved, and woo'd, and won her to me—
But, O, to say how blest—new-budding youth
Would run to age, in numbering o'er her beauties,
And never feel decay!—
Where'er she moved, the gladsome east went with her,
And rose in morning-comfort on my sight.
At length, this angel, placed on earth, brought forth
A son, a little cherub to the world,
Cloath'd in the brightness of his mother's beauty.
So, all was full, rhe social, the humane,
And every cordial amity!—Two years
Pass'd blissful on, and smiled.—But then!—

Hub.
What then?

West.
Ay, then arrived that hour, that fatal hour,
Which hell caught out, and mark'd for my undoing—
When, in a visit, as from friend to friend,
King Osbert sought my castle, I was absent—
But my too charming bride!—dark envy saw,
And sigh'd—his crown seem'd poor—high passions rose,
That swept faith, friendship, Heaven, and earth before 'em.
To sue, was vain—he knew it vain—what else?
Force, guilty, ruffian force—and I was ruin'd!—

Hub.
O, honour, virtue!—what, Northumbria's Osbert?

West.
Even he—the scepter'd ravisher, the robber—
The lustful, lawless ruler!—Go, my friend,
We have a business here of private claim,
But dear import—return thou to the camp,
Prepare our destined embassy to York,
And challenge forth whoe'er, in single fight,
Shall stand his country's hope—he shall be met,
And these the high conditions—if we conquer,
Then, Osbert cedes, and fair Northumbria's crown
Is left at our dispose; but, if we fall,
We swear to abdicate his throne for ever,
And leave the land in peace.

Hub.
It shall be done.

West.
Osbert, I think, will not confide his crown
To any second arm: for he is bold;
Though guilty, warlike as the sons of earth,
Ere nature knew decline—my vengeance then,
With sudden transport shall spring forth, confess'd,
And gripe its quarry.

Hub.
'Tis most likely—O,
May all the powers that war on perfidy
Succeed your hope!—Adieu.
[Exit Hubba.

West.
My Ethelwald,
Are we not near the place that holds my treasure—
The blest abode, where my Rowena dwells,
And consecrates the shrine?—

Ethel.
We are, my lord—
Yon pile, yon happy pile, contains the saint,
And lifts our earth to Heaven.

West.
Your arm, my Ethelwald,
For I am sudden faint with doubt and joy,
And trembling expectation—
Now walls, kind walls, be faithful to your trust;
Give but these eyes to see her once again,
And I will case your spires with beaten gold!—
Lend me thy cloak—Attend a-while without—
Yon gate invites my entrance—

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

An Apartment in the Abbey.
Rowena and Osric seated.
They rise and come forward.
Osric.
Yet, give me leave—

Row.
No more—I pray, no more!—
Honour!—shame to it, for it sticks on guilt,
And leaves reproach to virtue! I will none on't—
My lord, my lord, I am married to my grave,
And will no other husband.

Osric.
Wondrous creature,
All sainted excellence!—I did but wish
My country wedded to her peace in thee;
To see thy bright example, as a glass,
Rais'd to the public eye, where every soul
Must shame to look, or dress itself to virtue.

Row.
Alas! good Osric, I have no skill to queen it;
And if the little virtue Heaven has lent,
Will serve to pilot on one humble bark
To its last port, it is a task sufficient—
So much for royalty!—And, for the rest,
I had rather mix me with the loathsome dead,
And yield my living body to corruption,
Than turn my soul into the bed of sense
Still more detested.

Osric.
Yet, Rowena, yet,
There is a claim, your country has a claim—

Row.
A claim!

Osric.
Yes, lady,
Of retribution—that you seal her peace;
A kind reverse of blest prosperity,
In recompence of all the mighty ills,
You brought upon her.

Row.
I, Osric, I?

Osric.
Not the famed Helen, whose destructive charms
Laid Asia waste, and made all Greece a widow,
Caused equal desolation—Still, methinks,
I see thy husband in his vengeance rise
Loud as the thunder, furious as the whirlwind,
O'erturning armies, and our tower-fenced towns,
In undistinguished ruin!

Row.
No, Manchester—He warr'd on guilt alone,
The friends of violence, the foes of virtue!

Osric.
Against his country, and her lawful king—

Row.
His country's lawless tyrant!

Osric.
He is penitent—
As pilgrims sworn to wander thro' the world,
Their bare feet weeping blood on every flint,
For one false step.

Row.
O name him, name him not!

Osric.
How!—cannot piety, like thine, so rais'd
O'er all we deem of angels—fast, and prayer,
And vigils, that already hold in Heaven
Their nightly converse—cannot these afford
One drop of mercy to repentent frailty,
That kneels and prostrate falls beneath thy feet
For blest forgiveness?

Row.
O, Osric!—
My friend, my father!—well, I will confess it—
To thee I will confess—days, nights, and years,
I have strove, and combated, and pray'd for help,
And waked, and watch'd, and wept, and wish'd to pardon,
To quell the swelling hate, the big resentment—
In vain—still faithful to the dread remembrance,
The giant wrong returns too mighty for me—
His name, his dire idea!—'tis my curse,
The spectre of my thoughts, my detestation,
My daily, nightly horror!—
Heaven, pardon thou!—But where?—O! where's the power,
Shall wash my stain away?

Osric.
Thy stain, thou mirror of divine perfection!—
Thy stain?

Row.
Indelible,
It sticks—'tis rooted in my name, my memory,
Deep as existence—O, the ruthless ravager,
Who kills for ages!—Seest thou, Manchester,
These organs, once so pleasing to the eye,
Now to the soul they hold abhorr'd, and loathsome?
This body of pollution, 'tis my burden,
A load irreconcileable—till death
Shall mix and crumble it with kindred dust,
That no discerning finger may point out
Where lie the ruins of the lost Rowena.

Osric.
Fairest, my suit, I doubt, was over earnest,
But did not mean offence—Repose attend thee!
Heaven's happiest visions open in each thought,
And furnish out thy slumbers!

[Exit.

SCENE V.

Westmorland enters, and bends on one Knee.
Row.
O! once, indeed,
I had a husband—his all-placid face
Was as a little Heaven, new planeted
With twin bright stars; and beauty from each limb,
As through a summer casement, look'd abroad,
And found no rival.—
Ha! what art thou—
[Seeing Westmorland.
That thus obtrudest thy irreverend step
Upon the sacred vigils of the night?—
Com'st thou in friendship?

[West. kneels.
West.
From that sacred breast,
Heaven's choicest seat, far, far be dread and danger!
In friendship? yes—with awe—with adoration.

Row.
Whence?

West.
Peace be to your gentle heart!—
I bring a token, and from one, who once
Was honour'd with the highest, dearest claim,
That ever did enrich a mortal—one,
Who once did boast Rowena for his blessing—
Her long lost, her life-wedded Westmorland.

Row.
If, O if—
Celestial messenger! thou dost descend,
To tell my hour's at hand—I hail thy summons!
My soul is on the wing to meet my lord,
Where all cares end, and love alone's immortal.

West.
He lives—thy happy husband!—
He lives, he comes!—Already has he past
A length of distant lands—already reach'd
The beach that beetles o'er that envious sea,
Which roll'd between you!—

Row.
Living!—landed!—
Did'st thou say, landed?

West.
Yes, within this hour—
This, this exalted hour, this hour of blessedness!
Prepare to hear, to see, to hold—

[Westmorland rises—the cloak drops,
Row.
Ah, Heaven!
O'erwhelm me not with hopes of happiness,
That mock a mortal's reach!—Am I awake?
In life, or death, that form should be remember'd—
It breaks upon me—O the gracious figure!—
'Tis he, my lord, my husband!—
Shield me, give me room!—
His presence fills the place—but leaves our air—
Too thin for breath—I cannot—oh—

[Faints.
West.
Here end me, nature!—I have lived my length,
[Catches her.
Have climb'd the zenith of my Heaven—and hence
'Tis declination all—Wake, O wake, my love,
Star of sweet influence! Ye silver lids,
That chamber up the morning, open straight,
Open your gates, that I may see my day.

Row.
This crown is hot—it sears me to the brain!
Yon is a brighter, for 'tis gem'd with stars!—
Away—unhand me, ruffian—thou a king!
Have I not sworn it? I will not be wedded.

[Breaks from him.
West.
Alas, she raves—

Row.
Indeed—eyes mock me not!
If it is he, I'll have him!—

[Runs into his arms.
West.
Rowena, dearest!—
Why wilt thou pluck up sorrow by the roots,
With such deep heaves? Why drown me with thy tears?—
This passion quite o'erbears my growth of joys,
Which else had reach'd the stars—Ah, those dove eyes,
How they do speak!—
Wilt thou not know me?

Row.
Art thou not my lord,
My wedded lord, fair Albion's arm of war?
And am not I thy true and humble wife,
Sworn servant of thy will? I think, even so.
But whether so it be, in life or death—
Awake, or over-watch'd—in sooth, I know not.

West.
O, thou fair creature,
Whom nature form'd so exquisitely apt
To fill the deep desirings of my soul,
Made up of love, and peace-born blessedness!
Do I then hold thee?—painful, painful rapture!

Row.
Lord of my life, hast thou alone the power
To pass the bourn of pale mortality,
Whence none return beside? or has the grave,
Cold and insensible till now, relented,
Warm'd by my sighs, and quickening to my wishes—
And given thee back, thus lovely, to the light,
Thus, thus, to my embraces?

[Embrace.
West.
My heart's blessing!—
The season serves not now—we shall have time,
We shall have time for all the wond'rous tale—
To talk, to listen, mingling sweet regards,
And looks, and smiles, and questions, from that tongue,
Tuned, as the harp of David, to expel
All anguish from the soul!

Row.
Delightful intercourse,
Foretaste of Heaven!—But then—

West.
Why that look averted?
Then!—What of then, thou dearest?

Row.
Then, my Westmorland,
How shall I dare to lift a face of shame
To that majestic brow?—And yet, I trust,
'Tis not the transience of external beauty,
A form alone that won thee to my wishes—
No, thou didst wed a more essential wife,
The heart, the immortal soul of thy Rowena,
Still thine, and unpolluted.

West.
Ha!—yes, thou shalt have vengeance!—Say'st thou, dearest?
O, no, thou art all, from violence, from Osbert,
From mortal touch, all pure and unpolluted,
As snow new sifted through a northern sky,
And kist by the cold breeze—thy chaster breath
Would serve to light the vestal fire anew,
And consecrate its flame.

Row.
Our Edwin lives—

West.
For that I bow to Heaven—
There undivided, clasp'd within our offspring,
The fondest wish my soul ere form'd is answer'd.

Enter Ethelwald.
Ethel.
My lord, beware!—Just issuing from the town,
By distant torch-light I discern some troops,
That this way bend their motions.

West.
Then, Rowena,
We part for some few hours—To morrow's sun
Shall light me to my love; and I will lift her
To such a height, so near divinity,
The bending world shall look with wonder upward,
And worship while they gaze!

Row.
O, my life's lord—
Grandeur and I have vow'd a wide divorce—
I can't support the stedfast searching brow,
The world's broad look—I sink to death beneath it!
Ah, might I wooe thee to the kindly vale,
The sweet descents of life!—there Peace keeps home,
Nor ever visits at a lordly mansion;
But with the loves and joys, and downy hours,
Bounds o'er the green, and laughs within the cottage.

West.
Then, be it so—
Soon as one urgent debt is paid to honour,
Adieu the cares, and coils, that worldlings dress
In rainbow robes, and falsify with titles!
Far from the scenes of frenzy, let us fly
To some fair Eden of primeval innocence,
Where my Rowena's presence shall bereave
The fox of fraud, the tyger of his fierceness;
Shall tune all passions of the soul to peace,
The waves, the winds, and war-worn elements,
To their first order—Thou, like sinless Eve,
New from the hand of Heaven, returning bliss
To that fond bosom whence she drew her being;
My vital consort, my far dearer part,
Warm at my side, and panting at my heart!

[Exeunt