University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Suburbs of York.
Enter Osric and Edwin.
Edwin.
Where would you lead, sir—whither do we travel?

Osric.
Hold, we are near the appointment of our journey.
Where do we travel, say'st thou?—O, my son!
To save a treasure, more than mines can boast;
To seize, to snatch her from impending war,
And give a mother to the arms of Edwin.

Edwin.
A mother, sir!—My mother, say you?

Osric.
Yes.

Edwin.
O yet beware, how you excite desires
In a fond heart; a sense of new delights,
To pine with eager and with empty longings!
A mother!—Are you not my father, then?

Osric.
No, Edwin, no—far other than thy sire,
I claim thee as the child of my adoption,
Heir of my heart, and of my soul begotten.

Edwin.
O, sir, the creature of your goodness ever!
But then my parents—will you not inform me?

Osric.
Search not too deep; behind their honour'd names,
Lurk deadly dangers.—O, thou noble youth!
There is a secret—and, for thy dear safety,
I wish it ever so—for my sad heart
Misgives me in the issue.—This same Osbert,
The king, who long hath fill'd Northumbria's throne,
Did wrong thy valiant sire: thy sire, provoked
Beyond the bearings of a saint-like sufferance,
Wrench'd the avenging thunder from Heaven's hand,
Levied fierce war, and rent his country's peace.
I was his friend, the inmost of his soul;
And ere his daring purpose was avow'd,
In secret he consigned thyself and mother,
Her to my care, and thee to my adoption—
For well he knew, tho' loyalty withheld
My hand from his rebellion, yet my heart
Rank'd on his side, and bled amid the battle.

Edwin.
A cause, you say, there was—and O, I hope,
A worthy cause.

Osric.
A cause there was, my Edwin!
But not the varying circumstance of things,
Not nature can afford a worthy cause,
For warring on our country—Think of that—
And if—as haply thou shalt hear a tale
Too soon for thy repose—then, Edwin, then,
Suppress the vengeance rising in thy bosom;
And, to the judgments of vindictive Heaven,
Permit the crimes of man.

Edwin.
O, tell me all—

Osric.
I fear I have reveal'd too much already.

Edwin.
What can you fear from me?—Fear not your Edwin!
Am I not as the creature of your goodness,
Form'd by your hand, and charm'd to your direction?

Osric.

Edwin.
Ha! what a sudden terror shakes my limbs,
And freezes to my heart!—Father, and king!—
Murder my father!—lightnings strike me first.
Prevent this parricide—lop off these hands;
Tear my heart forth; nor leave a power to act,
Or think such horrors!

Osric.
Peace to thy heart—thy father is no more!

Edwin.
He fell not then by my misdeed—thank Heaven!

Osric.
No. But thy mother now demands our care.
This way, my son.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Inside of the Abbey.

Rowena, and Nuns ranged on each side, with Tapers.
Anthem.

[The Nuns retire.
Rowena
advances slowly, and speaks.
All hail Devotion, hail thou wing'd for Heaven,
Divine ambassadress! Here let me dwell
With Solitude, thy sister, and the train
That wait on thy uprising—Patience, Peace,
And Resignation calm, and Charity
Whose love enfolds a world.

A Nun enters.
Nun.
Madam, an antient man,
His look importing haste and earnest suit,
Entreats admittance.

Row.
Whence?

Nun.
From Osric, as he says, late Earl of Manchester.

Row.
Say'st thou, from Manchester? Quick, give him entrance.

[Exit Nun.

SCENE III.

Osric enters.
Row.
What would'st thou, stranger?

Osric.
O, all-beauteous saint!
Time cuts each lingering preface from my tongue—
Ruin has spread her baleful wings around,
And I from far have hasten'd to preserve thee.

Row.
Do I not hear a voice, that used to make
The widow's music—tuneful as the fall
Of waters on a burnt and thirsty land?
If thou art Osric, say—at once inform me;
Or if his angel, I will kneel to thee.

Osric.
Hold thee, Rowena!—Yes, I am that Osric,
Nor yet immortal.

Row.
Wherefore, then, these weeds,
Thrown o'er thy virtues, like a miser's chest
Rusting on treasure? Some mishap has found thee;
Why else an absence of twelve tedious years?
Where hast thou been, what distance has withheld thee?
And why now here, why thus, and at this hour,
When Apprehension, fearful centinel,
Stands all alarm'd upon the gloom of night,
And startles at events?

Osric.
The tale is long—time serves not now for utterance—
Even, while we speak, destruction rushes onward!
Danes, Dacians, Goths, collecting all their powers,
From Weser to the cold Septentrion star,
The sons of winter, pour such legions forth,
As, number'd, never yet have met in arms,
To speed perdition! Swift, O haste thee hence!—
Friendship attends to guide thy sacred steps
To some asylum; and, to guard thee forth,
Waits a young champion, valiant as his sire,
And gentle as thy self.

Row.
What champion?—Ah!
I will not hope it—no, I will not, Osric!
Yet thy looks speak—and lives my Edwin, then—
My child?—O, call him, give him to my tears,
To my heart's yearnings!—Yet, do not call him;
No, rather keep him from my arms for ever!
Perhaps he knows, knows all the piteous tale
Of his unhappy parents—how the ravisher,
This king of satyrs, stole upon the hour
Of faith, and holy hospitality—
My husband absent, every power away,
That should have guarded innocence and virtue
From brutal force, from horrid violation—
And stain'd the chastest, whitest page of life,
With foul dishonour!

Osric.
No, he knows it not.

Row.
Why, where has he escaped the shafts of slander?
Is there a tongue that speaks Rowena's name,
But aptly tacks pollution to the sound,
And taints the passing breeze?—Who knows nought else,
Is learn'd in my misfortune; and the shame,
That sits between the low abased brows
Of his sad mother, shall attaint my child,
And blast his filial virtue.

Osric.
Think not so.
For thou art all one excellence, too pure
For grosser imputation!—
These many years, the busy, meddling world,
Has talked itself to silence; and thy son,
Hath ever lived, till this important hour,
A stranger to thy name.—
Soon as thy mighty husband fell in battle,
Upon that bloody day, wherein he made
His last dread effort to revenge thy wrongs,
Driven from my country, from my native honours,
I fled, thy little son within my arms;
And in the court of royal Ethelred,
Till now have sojourn'd—Edwin, gentle youth!
Approach, my Edwin!—draw with reverence here,
And bend thee as to Heaven!

SCENE IV.

Edwin advances with slow reverence.
Row.
What loveliness!—
Fond, fond resemblance! gesture, form, and grace,
Like my lost lord!—ideas, once so loved,
Nor yet forgotten!—Parent nature, how,
How dost thou stir me! how awaken all
The tender, dear distractions! O, my child!

[Embraces.
Edwin.
Your pardon, madam—I am much unskill'd,
And new to all the duties of a son;
But in your face, as in the front of Heaven,
There is a language that bespeaks my soul,
And dictates more than outward forms can reach!
Here, at my heart, you pull the vital cords;
Within I know and feel from whence I am,
Part of your being—But—O mother!—

Row.
What says my child?

Edwin.
Had Heaven so will'd, how doubly blest were Edwin!
My father—what of him?

Row.
Thy father?—ah, that I can only say,
Thou had'st a father!—His paternal lips
Have held fond talk with thy unthinking days,
For he did love thee with a mother's feeling;
And that strong arm on which the nations hung,
With thee hath toy'd away the smiling hours,
And grew around thy slumbers—Me, even me,
He loved—too fatally he loved thy mother!—
The nobler passions of humanity,
Bore his bold vessel with too strong a wind—
We were his ruin—O, my child, my child!
Thy father loved too well—and we have lost him.

Osric.
Bright saint, let other hours indulge the scenes
Of fond remembrance—now, the times are urgent!
Haste, haste, Rowena, 'ere the speedier foe
This night, perhaps, shall rush around these walls,
And intercept our journey.

Row.
Ah, my lord,
Fly thou—and with thee be my Edwin's safety!
But take no thought for one so lost as I am.—
I cannot, must not fly.

Osric.
Say you, Rowena?—
We have mistook your meaning.

Row.
No, good Osric—
My rest is fix'd even here; and Heaven, I trust,
Is the next mansion that receives Rowena.

Osric.
It must not be—Already, I behold
The powers of hell unbound;
They rush to earth, and with them bring along
Hair starting horror, fear, and hate, and rage,
And wild ey'd famine, and wide-reaching waste,
And lust and rape—by whom thy wrongs, Rowena,
Are multiplied on thousands.

Row.
Not so, I hope—around this hallow'd pile,
Oft hath the rage of battle felt rebuke;
While each licentious soldier stood abash'd,
Or bow'd at distance—From the pensive shrines,
The twilight arches, and the shadowy domes,
Religion throws a far-forbidding awe
On all beholders.

Edwin.
Alas! my mother, have I found you then,
To part with you so soon? like chearing light,
But for a moment sent to blind-born eyes—
Just come, to shew the blessedness of sight,
And bid them close for ever!

Osric.
Soft!—some lights approach,—
This way they move—Thy chamber, haste, Rowena!
An hour shall send us to thy last resolves.
[Exit Rowena. Back Scene closes.
'Tis Osbert—that is he—This way, my son;
I would observe him.

[They retire.

SCENE V.

Enter Osbert attended.
Osbert.
Haste, Wolford!—gather up our scatter'd soldiers,
Call the militia in—alarm the country—
Line the wall round—and bar the massy gates—
Confusion! to be thus surprised!
No word, no warning of the coming danger!—
Our scouts, are they gone forth?

Officer.
They are, my liege.

Osbert.
Throw open all our magazines of arms;
We want new levies—and proclaim rewards
To old and young, to every trade and rank,
Whose arm shall lift a sword in our defence.
Where's Anulph, Adelfrid?

Officer.
They are fled, my lord.

Osbert.
O recreant slaves! they've eat our honey up,
And now forsake the hive—Quick, what's the news?

Enter an Officer.
Officer.
Retire, my liege, retire—'ere morning dawns,
The foe is on us.

Osbert.
Let them come, my friends.
Short is the conning of a soldier's lesson—
If not to live, why then, to fall with honour.
Retire, and leave me to my thoughts a while—
[Exeunt Attendants.
'Tis finish'd—Thou hast found me, Heaven!—Where now,
O, where's Northumbria's guardian, where is Westmorland,
Whose arm launch'd forth the thunder of the war
And crush'd invasion?—where my guilt hath sent him,
By my foul rape of his most chaste Rowena,
Dishonoured to his grave!—Where too is Manchester,
My throne's best prop, the wisdom of my council?
Him too I have cast off; and given, in place,
Riches to knaves, to cowardice commission,
Office to ignorance, and trust to traitors.

SCENE VI.

Osric and Edwin come forward.
Osbert.
Who art thou?

Osric.
A Briton.

Osbert.
Subject to whom?

Osric.
My country, and the law.

Osbert.
Hath not thy king a name?

Osric.
Yes, I remember now—his name was Osbert,
Till lost to fame, and of himself forgotten.

Osbert.
Ha! know'st thou not, that chastisement attends
The voice of insolence?

Osric.
The voice of truth!

Osbert.
O, it is
A voice, to which I have been long a stranger!—
Pride, stand aloof! ye visionary forms
Of titled majesty, away! while thus,
Thus to my arms I take one honest man,
More worth to kings than empire!

[Embraces Osric.
Osric.
Saints of Heaven!
Is this Northumbria's monarch, this our Osbert,
Whose heart so long was shut from all access
Of alienated worth?—Rowena!—Westmorland!

Osbert.
I understand thee—
O, severely true! Heaven pardon and redress!

Osric.
Then pardon thou—my liege, my still loved lord!
[Kneels.
Pardon a rash and most licentious tongue,
That thus, with unexampled boldness, durst
Defame thy virtues, and traduce my master.

Osbert.
Ha! Manchester!

Osric.
The same—Why turns my prince
From his old man?

Osbert.
Ungrateful to mine eye,
Is the cold visage of the friend I have injured.

Osric.
No more!—I swear,
Thus to have found thee, to thyself restored,
Is every loss retrieved—'tis more than empire!
It is thy better birth-day, hail'd and hymn'd
By angel forms, and heavenly winged saints,
That guard a British throne!

Osbert.
My father!—Come,
Come to my heart, and plant thy virtues there.
[Embrace.
And O! thou sage of years, thou son of wisdom,
If there is aught in art or arms to friend us,
One cast of helpful council—stretch thy hand,
And save a sinking realm!

Osric.
One yet remains,
One last expedient, one of mightiest proof—
But strange to power, and still to kings ungrateful.

Osbert.
O name it!

Osric.
Wherefore do I see thee thus,
With luke-warm soldiers, thinly sown around thee?
Where are thy sons, thou father of a people!
That now should combat for their own inheritance?
O! to the souls of unpossessing slaves
No loss can come, and every lord is equal.

Osbert.
What's to be done?

Osric.
Yet, ere the morning dawn,
Summon thy subjects, yield them their dear rights,
The rights of men free-born—the sons of Heaven,
Who hold, in common with the proudest kings,
The gifts of nature, and the claims of reason!
Would'st thou have soldiers faithful, daring, dauntless;
Give them a stake to fight for—Is it gold,
Office, or honour, or the brighter prize
Of animating glory?—No—'tis more!
'Tis Liberty, my prince, assured by law,
And circled from encroachment!—Never fell
Army, or empire, 'ere the fatal day,
In which they fell from Freedom!

Osbert.
O, enough—all, all shall be amended,
As thou, my friend and father, shalt appoint.
But say—
What youth is that whose form attracts our eye,
And bids it note him?

Osric.
Mine, my gracious sovereign.

Osbert.
Is he thy son?

Osric.
I have no other child.

Osbert.
Son, worthy of the sire!—Approach, brave youth!
And say how best a monarch may prevail,
Who means to woo and win thee to his friendship?

Edwin.
My gracious lord, the little worth I boast,
Will save the seeking.

Osbert.
O! we trust not thee,
To speak thine own deservings; well we know,
Honour ne'er rises in its own report.
But if we yet survive to-morrow's sun;
If, by thy wise and warlike father's councils;
If, by thy arm, thou offspring of the brave!
It lie in valour, or in art to save;
Thence, every joy and every equal care,
From both I gather, and with both I share—
With him my scepter, and my heart with thee;
Thou my loved brother, and my father he!

[Exeunt.