 | The Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh |  |
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SCENE III.
In the Tower.Enter Sir Walter Raleigh, Howard, Carew, and Wade.
Sir W. Ra.
So, my good Friends; this Visit turns the Edge
Of Fortune's Strokes, and hardens 'em to Bluntness.
If the Resort of Friends is counted kind
When we salute the Day, and take up Life,
Unknowing of the Weight; 'tis kinder far,
To see us lay the cumbrous Burthen down,
And help us to shake off Mortality.
Enter Lady Raleigh.
L. Ra.
O my dear Lord!—O these cruel Butchers!
Can you not stay till I have mov'd the King?
Sure he will hear me. He had been as I
But for my Raleigh's Aid: A widow'd King.
What can he less return than Life for Life?
Sir W. Ra.
The King is good and merciful; so just,
That, were his Power as Eastern Tyrants large,
His virtuous Nature, to it self a Law,
Would check that Power, in Goodness to Mankind;
Scorning to do a Wrong, because he might.
Charge not to him the wicked Statesman's Wiles,
Who steal his Name to sanctify their Crimes,
And murther in the Garb of Innocence.
Else had not I, enlarg'd and free as you,
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Stood here the Spectacle of gaping Crowds.
Cunning Oppression may o'ertake the best,
Treating alike the Subject and the Slave:
Yet tho' I perish, see thee torn away
From me, a single Suff'rer; dearest Freedom,
I will assert thee with my latest Breath,
And bid my Country cherish thy Remains.
L. Ra.
O my dear Lord, you must not, shall not dye:
This Theme, which I will urge and urge again,
Shall pierce the King, and give thee back to Life.
Sir W. Ra.
Has not the Queen spoke strongly in my Cause?
When Majesty it self descends to sue,
And sues in vain, all other Tongues are useless.
Think'st thou that any other Voice could move
My Heart to Pity, if thy own had fail'd?
How.
These female Tears
Distract my Scheme. Lieutenant, you can lye;
Do it, or—
[Whispers Wade.
Wade.
You may indeed: It is deferr'd. See here.
[Shews a Paper. Howard leads off Lady Raleigh.
Sir W. Ra.
Is she remov'd? The Struggle then is past;
My Soul is light and easie now again,
Pants for the Race, and fain would live at large.
Retire a while, my Friends; young Raleigh waits:
'Tis fit I season him with proper Thoughts,
And arm his Soul to see his Father dye.
[Exeunt severally.
Enter Olympia.
Olym.
Where, Nature, art thou fled? How are thy soft,
Thy tender Strings of Sympathy decay'd?
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That runs from Parents to their Childrens Hearts,
And bids Man love his Issue as himself?
O thou art lost! and Woman's Tears, that us'd
To raise and wake thy sleeping Instruments,
Great Nature, serve but to lament thy Death.
Why did'st thou flatter me, why give me once
A Daughter's Power, and snatch it from me now?
Like a mad Painter, wanton of thy Skill,
Delighting to deface thy own fair Works.
Enter Young Raleigh. Turns away.
Turn, Raleigh, and behold these streaming Eyes,
These supplicating Lips and lifted Hands:
My Father saw them, and yet turn'd not to me.
Y. Ra.
I cannot hear thee, for thy Words are full
Of subtle Poison, Death is in thy Eyes:
I dare not look, and yet I wish I could.
Olym.
Have I not greatly labour'd for thy Father?
Y. Ra.
My Father! Wherefore dost thou name my Father?
That calls a thousand Thoughts into my Soul,
All fraught with Hatred to thy Race and thee.
Does he not dye by Cecil's bloody Hand?
And shall his Daughter wash the Stain away?
Olym.
The Crime is not from me: Yet Nature starts,
And cries 'Tis monstrous, if it should be so.—
Away Reflection, Love is lost in Thinking.
Yet look on me.—
Y. Ra.
How shall I teach my Eyes
To look with Scorn on Objects us'd to please?
Who never saw the Rose, might say 'twas foul;
The Sweetness known is hard to be forgot.
Ha, do not I expect my Father here?
This Time should all be his.
Then turn, my Heart, in Wrath:
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And Death lye lurking in that beauteous Form.
Olym.
O cruel Raleigh, was it not enough
I am not, never, never must be thine,
But thou must stab me with these killing Words?
Y. Ra.
I find 'tis as impossible to hate,
As love her. Forgive me, poor Olympia;
Fate stands between us, Honour sides with Fate,
And bids us each forget that we have lov'd.
Olym.
See, Cecil, and enjoy thy Daughter's Woes:
Thus, Raleigh, I give back thy Father's Life.
[Stabs herself.
Y. Ra.
Oh lost! destroy'd! Rash Deed! Unhappy Maid!
Tormenting Sight! Can I behold thee thus?
See the pale Fingers of approaching Death
Damping those Beauties, chilling all thy Flames,
And only moan thee with an idle Sorrow?
It must—Forgive me, Father, Nature, Heav'n:
Love bids me follow.—Stay, Olympia, stay
On this Side Death. Look up—thy Raleigh calls.
Olym.
That Name awakes the heavy Sense from Sleep,
[Opening her Eyes heavily.
And holds retiring Life in sweet Suspense.
Where art thou, most Unhappy? Let my Eyes
Fix on thee, print thy Image on my Soul,
And bear at once its Guilt and Comfort hence.
Y. Ra.
Speak on, and kill me with thy dying Voice.
Sweet Instrument of Sorrow, grow not mute,
Till I am cold and senseless. Oh Despair!
Why art thou slow? This Hand must quicken thee.
Olym.
Raleigh, forbear; enough of Blood is spilt;
Offended Heav'n demands no more than this.
Yet, oh, if thou hast lov'd, by Love I beg
Send not my Spirit in Deceit away,
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Y. Ra.
Attest, ye Pow'rs!
Ye conscious Pow'rs! who live in endless Love;
Speak it, my Heart, in every blushing Vein;
Tell it, my Eyes, in every gazing Look;
And thou, my Tongue, sound nothing else but Love.
Olym.
Draw nearer then, and let my fainting Hand
Thus seize thee—hold thee—and thus leave thee mine.
[Dies.
Y. Ra.
Farewell, thou whitest Virgin Shade, farewell.
Thou, and thy Sorrows, now are all at Peace;
But I have Woes, unnumber'd Woes, to come.
If any ask, whose Eyes are forc'd to see,
Unhallow'd View, a murther'd Lover's Coarse;
If any ask, whose Arms expect to grasp
A dying Father in a last Embrace;
If any ask, what Orphan's Tongue must charm
The Ghost of Sorrow in a widow'd Mother,
Conduct him here. In me behold that Wretch,
The Scene and Center of all human Grief.
Enter Sir Walter Raleigh.
Sir W. Ra.
My Son, the little Space that lies between
Us and Eternity we give to thee.
The Chain of Nature, that successive runs
From Age to Age, connecting Sire and Son
In strongest Amity, now breaks short the Links,
And makes thee Heir and Father of our Race,
And thou must be—
Y. Ra.
O teach me rather
To bear what now I am.
Sir W. Ra.
Art not thou the Son
Of him, whose Name shall never make thee blush?
Of him, who in a Courtier's, Soldier's Life,
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Feels no great Crime weigh heavy on his Soul.
If to have lov'd my Country, to have priz'd
Her Fame and Safety above Gain and Life;
If to have watch'd, travell'd, fought and bled for her,
If these are Crimes Posterity will judge,
And Infamy pollute the Name of Raleigh.
Y. Ra.
O my lost Father! O my—
Sir W. Ra.
This Weakness
Might have become thy Mother's tender Sex;
Grief there is natural, and shoots
A catching Sorrow to the strongest Heart.
But we are Men.
Y. Ra.
No single Woe is mine:
[Pointing to the Body.
Behold Olympia, view the breathless Fair:
Her self the Victim and the Slayer too.
Sir W. Ra.
Unhappy Maid! Does Vengeance fly so fast,
It would not pause a while 'till I was gone;
But o'ertook Cecil in his dearest Child?
Take Care, my Heart, thy hardest Proof is now;
Rejoice not in his Woes, say not to thy self
Heav'n bids thee triumph o'er the guiltless Blood.
Poor, poor old Man! how will thy tender Heart
Bear this sad Sight, when he, whose Foe thou art,
Sickens with Tenderness, and melts for thee!
Hear me, Supreme, in this forgiving Prayer;
With Faith and Reason fortify his Breast,
Help his old Age, and comfort his Despair.
See her remov'd.—Nature may relapse,
And Thoughts forbidden sully our last Hour.
Come to my Arms, thou best-belov'd, as there
Thou growest to my Bosom, think how much
Thy Father lov'd thee, and repay the Debt
Of tender Duty to thy Widow'd Mother.
Y. Ra.
O Father! Mother! multiplied Distress!
O! thou departed, and thou hastening Shade—
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Forbear. Duty and Nature claim so much;
But Virtue, Manhood, Heav'n forbid the rest:
Observe me yet; this Lesson is my last.
Follow not Fortune, nor aspire to Court;
If call'd to Honour, hold thy Country's Good
First in thy View, That comforts all Disgrace.
For know, a mighty States-Man is so plac'd,
One good or guilty Thought may damn or save him,
And turn the Fate of Millions in an Hour.
For me, regardless of thy Father's Fate,
Pursue his Pattern in all Acts but One.
Contract no Friendship with an o'ergrown Greatness;
Falling, it crushes thee; and standing long,
Grows insolently weary of Support,
And spurns the Props that held it up before.
Forget thy Father's Loss, but guard his Fame.
Y. Ra.
Forget you! Not till Memory is lost.
Sir W. Ra.
Let him who doubts my Honour view my End,
As thou shalt, and observe me as I lye
Prone to the Earth, and hastening to be made
A Part with common Clay, if this firm Fabrick,
Old as it is, do shrink or shudder then.
Thanks to my Innocence! I feel my Blood
Beat strong and vigorous, as at forty Years.
Enter Howard, Cæsar, Carew and Wade.
Sir W. Ra.
But see, our Friends return; such virtuous Men
Be it thy Pride to cherish and embrace.
There, Howard; thou hast been his Father's Friend;
Love him as thou hast me, thou canst not more.
How.
Thus let me hold thee in thy Father's Presence;
And if I quit the Claim which I have here,
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The Dirt of Wealth, or Vanity of Honour,
The Lust of Power, or Luxury of Love;
If the dark Brow of Danger, Fortune, Death,
Sever our Hearts, or make me less thy Friend,
May my Fame dye among the rotten Names
Of Summer-Friends, Court-Spies, and Parasites,
Or Howard perish by a Coward's Sword.
Y. Ra.
Thou brave good Man, my Heart is warm as thine;
But Sorrow choaks, and turns my Tongue to Silence.
Cæs.
Sir Walter, you may live; for Cobham's dead.
Sir W. Ra.
Is Gundamor or Cecil?
Cæs.
No.—But he
Hearing your Fate, with sudden Passion seiz'd,
Swore you were Innocent; then rav'd aloud
On Cecil's Plots; at last, with Madness turn'd,
He stabb'd himself.
Sir W. Ra.
Indeed I pity him.
'Tis a sad Spectacle of Woe, to see
The Senses loose, and Reason all unhing'd,
In the last Moments of expiring Life,
When every Faculty should be enlarg'd,
To aid the Soul, and wing her on her Way.
Lieutenant, is there Time?
Wade.
There is, Sir Walter.
Sir W. Ra.
Would any speak, my Friends? Is there a Wish?
Or is it all a Look and parting Prayer?
How.
My Friend, one Day I never can forget,
When 'midst a Shower of Indian Darts I lay,
When o'er my Wounds the savage Army stood,
Chusing a Part to drop the poys'nous Drug;
Then you cried out, O Friendship thou art lost!
And springing forward with a desperate Bound,
Drove off the servile Nations, brought me back
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Sir W. Ra.
I did; and sav'd an English-Man, a Friend:
A juster Glory than a Roman Triumph.
How.
For this, Four Hundred veteran Sailors stretch
Their harden'd Sinews, and demand thy Freedom.
These Guards will fly and tremble at their Sight.
Sir W. Ra.
Ha! Was it well to call my Spirit back,
When Peace and Happiness were seal'd above,
To mix with Earth, and soil my self with Guilt?
I thought to part the last with Thee; but now,
Howard, thou shalt not see thy Raleigh dye.
How.
Forgive me then, my Raleigh.
Sir W. Ra.
I do, I do;
Thus, in this last Embrace. Farewel, my Friend.
The Glass is almost run, the Scene is short,
Presenting but one Object to my View.
O eloquent! O just! O mighty Death!
Who shall recount the Wonders of thy Hand?
Whom none could counsel, thou hast well advis'd,
And whisper'd Wisdom to the deafest Ear:
Whom all have trembl'd at, thy Might has dar'd;
Whom all have flatter'd, thou alone hast scorn'd,
And swept poor deify'd Mortality
With common Ashes to an humble Grave.
Long have I pluck'd thy Terrors from my Heart,
Call'd thee Companion in my Active Life,
My solitary Days, and studious Hours;
Made thee familiar to my Couch as Sleep.
Come then, my Guest:—The guilty Soul depends
'Twixt Doubt and Fear:—But thou and I are Friends.
[Exeunt.
Manent, Howard and Carew.
How.
He would not let me. Virtuous to the last.
Was it well done?—Could Howard, who has fought
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A tame Spectator see him led unarm'd,
Like a poor Captive thro' a gazing Crowd?
Or view that Face, which never look'd on Death
But with an upward Front, and threatning Brow,
Turn'd, like a common Traitor's, to the Ground?
Honour could not have born it, every Fool
Of Curiosity had call'd me Coward;
And the Wind whisper'd nothing else but Coward.
Car.
Gods! that the choicest Genius of our Age,
Form'd for the highest Purposes of Life,
To check aspiring Tyrants in their Course,
And force the Royal Robbers from their Prey,
That he should suffer, suffer in that Land
That ought to bless her self thro' every Age,
Boasting she ever bore a Son like him!
[Shout within.
How.
Curse on their clam'rous Throats! Base Multitude!
So would they bellow, if the sacred Head
Of Majesty it self lay low in Dust.
They never mind the Person, or the Cause:
A Tale and Holiday is all their Bus'ness.
Car.
Hence see, that single Virtue can't stand long,
When Faction and Conspiracy grow strong.
Yet say we not, when Blood's unjustly spilt,
Heav'n leaves her Favourites, or approves the Guilt.
How.
Arms are no more; the Soldier's Friend is lost.
Be idle then, my Sword, till happy Time
Shall bid thy Country arm; then shine again,
Wave on the Deck, or glitter on the Plain;
Revenging Raleigh's Loss on guilty Spain.
[Exeunt Omnes.
| The Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh | |