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SCENE I.
Trumpets. Enter Archbishop and Albemarle at one Door, Arden and Barons at the other.Albemarle.
What from the camp, my Lord?
Arden.
The hosts are joined.
All friends and fellow soldiers, they compose
One mighty army. Rivals now are friends,
And brothers of the war. Yon field displays
A scene of glory to a soldier's eye.
I never saw the face of war so gay,
So beauteous. Glancing in the sun, behold
The camp in motion, and the field on fire.
The soul of freedom animates them all.
Impatient for the trumpet's sound, they act
The future fight; and, brandishing their arms,
With flaming circles sweep the empty air.
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Bold is the heart for liberty that beats,
And strong his arm who draws his country's sword.
When for a nation's rights the banner flies,
The victor's laurel with the olive twines:
The host of freedom is the host of God.
[Enter a Messenger with a Letter to Arden.
Arden.
The news I have received concern us deeply.
Barons, we tremble on the verge of fate.
In this confederate host a traitor lurks,
Who has betray'd our measures to the foe,
And holds a correspondence with the Dauphin.
Albemarle.
A traitor among us!
Arden.
A secret foe,
Who plots our ruin. Guards, arrest th'ambassador:
Bring him before us. Now, before we know
This great offender, Barons, it is meet
That we pronounce his doom, lest he should stand
Too near our heart, by friendship or by blood,
And so elude the sentence of the laws.
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Although my nature leads me to be mild,
Yet here the highest punishment is due,
And timely rigour is humanity.
By this our high authority we guard,
And strike astonishment and terror round
To all offenders in the time to come.
No favour or affection will seduce
The steady patriot from the public good.
He to his country his own life devotes;
Nor will he spare a traitor's.
Archbishop.
Instant death
He merits. Rousing at the call of Heaven,
Now when the noblest spirits of the world
Plan for the public; when the bravest hands
Are rais'd to strike for freedom and mankind;
When just pronounced in the fane of Heaven,
The recent vow yet trembles on the tongue;
If meanly lurking, mid' a chosen band
Of patriots and of heroes, one be found,
False to his trust, his honour, and his oath,
Who, scorning sanctions, human and divine,
Betrays his country to her foes, divides
Th'inheritance of future times, and sells
Eternal honour for eternal shame;
'Tis then that justice, reddening into wrath
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A great example will restore the host:
A traitor's blood will reinstate the laws.
Arden.
Does then the general voice pronounce his doom?
Barons.
One is our voice; and death is the award.
Arden.
The bonds of friendship, and the ties of blood
Cancell'd, then awful justice holds its course.
His Country is the parent of the brave,
Who march devoted where she points the way.
[Noise behind Scenes. Ambassador brought in.
Ambassador.
This is the insolence of anarchy!
Though you have risen against your rightful king,
I hope you still regard the law of nations.
Why, even in barbarous, and in savage states,
Ambassadors are sacred—
Arden.
When they're honest.
But, if they plot against the kingdom's weal,
They answer with their life. There is a letter
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Produce that letter, and in peace depart.
[Ambassador gives it to Arden, who peruses it with marks of agitation.
Albemarle.
You start! From whom, my Lord?—
Arden
, [Giving it to him.
Inform yourself.
Albemarle
[Reads the Letter.
“To the Dauphin.
“A dark design is going on against us;
“Why art thou absent in the day of war?
“Come on the wings of love to save the fond,
“Ah! if you come not, the undone—Elvina.”
My daughter! Heavens! It is impossible!
Elvina
, [entering unseen by Albemarle.
What means this tumult? Oh! Eternal powers!
I am betray'd! The fatal secret's known—
[Apart.
Albemarle
, [Recovering from his astonishment, reads again.
“A dark design is going on against us;
“Why art thou absent in the day of war?
“Come on the wings of love to save the fond,
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Undone Elvina! Ah! Undone indeed!
[Seeing her.
Ha! Take her from my sight. Alas! my daughter,
Thou wast an angel once!—Ye shades of death
Fall round, and wrap me in your gloom forever!
Archbishop.
Unhappy father! we lament thy woes.
The sacred season of the hoary hair
Such shocks of destiny can ill sustain.
In this dark hour of trouble and despair
We look to thee alone.
Albemarle.
Support me, Heaven,
In this tremendous hour, and give me strength
For such a trial! Ah! what have I done?
All-righteous God, what evil have I done,
That, in the fall of life, thy heavy hand
In wrath should crush me to the ground, and bring
My hoary head with sorrow to the grave!
In this tremendous hour, and give me strength
For such a trial! Ah! what have I done?
All-righteous God, what evil have I done,
That, in the fall of life, thy heavy hand
In wrath should crush me to the ground, and bring
My hoary head with sorrow to the grave!
You wonder at me: Tell me how to act;
Ye that are fathers, tell me what to do?—
Shall my Elvina?—Must my daughter die?
Oh! must the parent doom his child to death?—
—You answer not. Your silence, and your tears,
Point out my path . . . I was a father fond,
Fond to distraction of an only child—
But I am just; and I have not forgot
What to my country and my oath I owe.
Nature may cry, but justice shall be heard:
Dear, dear as she is to me—she shall die!
Ye that are fathers, tell me what to do?—
Shall my Elvina?—Must my daughter die?
Oh! must the parent doom his child to death?—
—You answer not. Your silence, and your tears,
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Fond to distraction of an only child—
But I am just; and I have not forgot
What to my country and my oath I owe.
Nature may cry, but justice shall be heard:
Dear, dear as she is to me—she shall die!
Archbishop.
Hard is thy duty now, heroic father!
But high the part appointed thee of Heaven.
Resume thy spirit: Call thy virtue forth.
Now, in the conscious eye of Heaven and earth,
Thou actest for the glory, for the good
Of ages yet to come: Thou standest forth.
A great example to the wondering world.
—I see it plain: Behold the hand of Heaven
Stretch'd from the sky, and beckoning thee to tread
A high heroic path!—The latter days,
The fate of England in succeeding times,
The fame and glory of the British isle,
Hang on the passing hour.
Albemarle
, [In astonishment.
What means my Lord?—
Archbishop.
Lo! now 'tis thine, by one immortal deed,
To form the character of future times,
And raise a spirit that shall never die.
To form the character of future times,
And raise a spirit that shall never die.
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See! What a family you will embrace!
You rise the founder of a mighty state,
The father of the free! The nation takes
From you its temper; and the ages rise
To call you patriot! Ah! who would not wish
A destiny so high?
You rise the founder of a mighty state,
The father of the free! The nation takes
From you its temper; and the ages rise
To call you patriot! Ah! who would not wish
A destiny so high?
Albemarle.
I wish it not.
Archbishop.
'Twas thus, when Rome her liberty regained,
A father doom'd his darling son to death;
He won immortal glory, and inspired
Rome with his spirit. From his patriot deed
Went sudden virtue living o'er the land.
The Roman kindled when he heard the tale,
And stepp'd a hero forth; and eager burn'd
For Rome to combat, and for Rome to die.
Hence heroes, patriots, croud the historic page;
Hence consuls, senators, a God-like train!
Hence a great people rose, the Lords of earth;
Hence many centuries of glory roll'd
In long procession; and eternal Rome,
The Queen of nations, did ascend the throne,
And sway the sceptre of the sea-girt world.
Albemarle.
Thou hast no daughter.—
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In the dreadful shock
Of this disaster, Barons, it is meet
That to a parent's feelings we appeal,
And bid the father of his country judge.
[The Barons retire to the bottom of the Theatre.
Albemarle
, [On the front.
Am I the judge? My country, at thy voice,
This old gray head shall wear the helm again:
Bare in the field these scars shall bleed anew.—
O powerful Nature! I'm a father still—
Thou bleeding innocence! Ah! should the sword
Just aim to touch that tender trembling bosom,
'Tis mine to ward the blow.—Shall I direct
The dagger to the bosom of my child,
And stop the dearest current of my blood?—
But justice, truth, imperious honour, call . . .
Forgive me, O my country, if I stain
A Roman's virtue with unmanly drops!—
This old gray head shall wear the helm again:
Bare in the field these scars shall bleed anew.—
O powerful Nature! I'm a father still—
Thou bleeding innocence! Ah! should the sword
Just aim to touch that tender trembling bosom,
'Tis mine to ward the blow.—Shall I direct
The dagger to the bosom of my child,
And stop the dearest current of my blood?—
But justice, truth, imperious honour, call . . .
Forgive me, O my country, if I stain
A Roman's virtue with unmanly drops!—
'Tis done. Th'irrevocable doom is sealed.
Where am I? Ha! the shades of death surround me,
And graves, and monuments, and ghastly forms—
That path leads down to blood—Thou fainted shade,
Who gav'st a blooming cherub to my arms,
O turn thy tender eyes from this sad scene,
Nor look upon the deed!—Ah! piteous sight!
Stretch'd on the block, the trembling victim's laid;
The pale hand waves that should have clos'd my eyes.
That was the sign of death!—What do I see?—
A heedless trunk; a mangled corpse—Oh! Oh!
And graves, and monuments, and ghastly forms—
That path leads down to blood—Thou fainted shade,
Who gav'st a blooming cherub to my arms,
O turn thy tender eyes from this sad scene,
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Stretch'd on the block, the trembling victim's laid;
The pale hand waves that should have clos'd my eyes.
That was the sign of death!—What do I see?—
A heedless trunk; a mangled corpse—Oh! Oh!
Barons, the dreadful sacrifice is made:
But spare me! spare a father the sad sight—
—Yet ah! before I go let me behold her,
To take a long last look of my Elvina
Before she dies, before we part forever.
—I hear her step. The trembler comes. She looks
As she were innocent. Her face is woeful,
Yet it is lovely; I could look for ever.
My daughter—Thou art doom'd—These tears will tell thee—
My child! My child!
But spare me! spare a father the sad sight—
—Yet ah! before I go let me behold her,
To take a long last look of my Elvina
Before she dies, before we part forever.
—I hear her step. The trembler comes. She looks
As she were innocent. Her face is woeful,
Yet it is lovely; I could look for ever.
My daughter—Thou art doom'd—These tears will tell thee—
My child! My child!
[Looking earnestly upon her as he goes out.
Baron.
Alas! unhappy man!
Thy age is desolate. Ill-fated maid,
In prime of youth and beauty doom'd to death!
Arden.
Now, as the law of chivalry ordains,
And honour's cause demands, Barons prepare
A place of combat in the listed field;
If any Knight or Baron of the land
Will stand a champion to defend the fair.
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