University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Hall of a Baron's Castle. Martial Music. Enter, at opposite Doors, Albemarle with Norman Lords, and Arden with the Saxon, Archbishop, Barons, Knights, and Squires in complete Armour, and with the Train of chivalry.
Archbishop.
Barons of England's realm, high Lords of parliament,
Hereditary guardians of the kingdom!
Your country calls you to her last defence.
Our antient laws, our liberties, our lives
May in a moment fall. Red o'er our heads
The ruthless tyrant holds oppression's rod,
Which, if not warded, by heroic hands,
Will crush the British liberties for ever.
Ourselves, our children, our posterity
Are slaves or free from this decisive hour.
For now the crisis of our fate is come,
And England's in the scale.

Albemarle.
I boast no more
The fire and spirit of my youthful days;
Days when, with Richard in the grand croisade,
We raised the siege of Ascalon; displayed
The British banners in the Holy Land,
Drove from the field the millions of the East,
Compell'd the mighty Saladine to fly,
And o'er the crescent raised the glorious cross.
My arm refuses now to draw the sword;
But let my counsel weigh: Our quarrel's dropt,
Let factions now unite; with one accord
Let us deliberate for public good;
We stand united, or divided fall.

Arden.
Deliberation does not suit the time;
This is the hour of action and of war.
While we consult, the tyrant, on his march,
Comes like a conflagration thro' the land,
Marking his way with ruin. Every step
Treads on the mangled bodies of the dying.
The wail of England weeping o'er her sons,
The voice of Justice, and the cry of blood,
Call loud “To arms, to arms!”

Baron.
The voice we hear:
It sounds not to the deaf. You gallant host
Return this answer which we now return.

[Drawing their swords and coming forward.
Archbishop.
I love your zeal: It is a flame from heaven;
'Tis the high temper of the Briton bold.
And while this ardour in your bosom burns
You never will be slaves. At such a time
When order's fled, when government dissolves,
When the great course of justice thwarted stops,
And in the roar and riot of misrule
The voice of Law is silent, Nature then
Resumes her antient rights, ascends anew
A sovereign on her throne; recalls the sword
Which with the scepter to the King she gave,
And whirls it flaming in her own right hand,
To dash the tyrant from his blood-stained car,
And guard her free-born sons.

Arden.
The glorious sons
Of Gothic sires who broke the Roman arm
Stretch'd out to wield the sceptre of the world,
Who on the ruins of imperial Rome,
And in the blood of nations and of Kings
The firm foundation of their freedom laid,
Will never bend beneath a tyrant's yoke.
Rather than wear dishonourable chains,
Or follow captives at the trophied car,
Give us again the wildness of our woods,
And the fierce freedom of our great forefathers!

Archbishop.
Forbid it Heaven, that Britain see anew
What these sad eyes have seen! When o'er the land,
The dire devoted land, the curse of Rome
Flew like the thunder of avenging Heaven,
And smote the people. Then religion fled.
No bell did summon to the house of prayer;
No vested priest attoned the wrath of heaven;
But sitting solitary, wept, and wailed
His fane forsaken and his altar low.
Un-named, unsprinkled in the fount of life,
The infant raised the lamentable shriek.
The bridegroom and the bride bewailed apart
Their rites unfinished and their luckless love.
Against the dying saint heaven's gate was shut.
They sung no requiem to the parting soul,
Nor laid the ashes in the hallowed ground;
Earth seem'd a charnel-house, and men like ghosts
Who cross in silence at the midnight hour,
And beckon with the hand.

Arden.
Yes, Barons, Britons,
The history of the tyrant's reign has run
A period marked with the tears, the groans,
The blood of Britons. He began in blood
His direful reign, and with unnatural hand
Stabb'd his own nephew kneeling at his feet,
And pleading for his life. Have you not seen him
The mighty hunter of the human prey
In a waste forest? Has not England seen
The cradle of her infants stained with blood;
The bower of chastity, the bed of love
Assaulted, violated? Lo! you stand
Upon the recent tomb of parents slain!
Had such dire bloodshed curs'd the former age,
Our valiant fathers would have shook the throne.

Albemarle.
We are as valiant as your fathers were;
Nor does the Norman to the Saxon yield.
To curb the tyrant, not to shake the throne,
We draw the sword—Arden, remember—

Archbishop.
Barons,
This is no time for quarrel. Have you heard
That the perfidious Dauphin—

Albemarle.
What! Perfidious?—

Archbishop.
The Dauphin, whom you courted to your aid;
He whom your great deliverer you hailed,
Means to make you his ministers, to gain
A kingdom to himself, and then to take
Your heads, as traitors, to your native Prince.
Melun, entrusted with the bloody secret,
In his last hour revealed it.

Arden.
God of heaven!—

Archbishop.

Albemarle.
With dire intestine ills the nation groans,
And would to Heaven the remedy were found!

Arden.
So every lover of his country prays.

Archbishop.
Then hear the oracle of heavenly truth!
You both are brave; both thro' the world renown'd;
And now the time demands an Union firm,
Never to be dissolved. The past forgot,
And ever blotted from the book of fame,
In cordial concord let the future run.
Your wisdom will suggest some solemn rite,
Or public deed, to ratify th'event,
A bond of union, and a pledge of peace,
For ages to remain.—You, Albemarle,
Are happy in a daughter fair, the boast
And beauty of the isle: On whom can you
So well bestow her hand, as on the man
To whom the bravest of our warriours bow?
Your rival houses will be reconciled,
And one the Norman and the Saxon prove.

Albemarle.
There is a bar which cannot be removed.
Elvine, the gallant lover of her youth,
Returning, laurel'd, from the holy war,
Reigns in her heart.

Baron.
He's in the Dauphin's camp,
And fights the battles of perfidious France
Against his native land.

Another Baron.
The brave Lorraine,
His chosen friend in distant Palestine,
Whose beauteous sister is the flower of France,
Has won that hero to the Dauphin's side.

Albemarle.
Tho' William's royal blood flow in his veins,
And he ranks nearest to the Norman line,
Yet to my country I devote myself,
Devote my all. Give me thy hand, my son,
I know that thou art brave.

[Saxons and Normans meet with one another, and embrace.
Archbishop.
Illustrious chiefs,
I praise your wisdom, equal to your zeal.
Propitious Providence! I hail the day
That makes one nation of the British race.
Now quarrels cease, and faction is no more.
For freedom, and the laws, we draw the sword,
And lose the private in the public cause.
One effort more remains: So great an host
Requires a General to lead them forth.
This day determines that important choice.
[To Arden.]
To you two nations, now in union joined,
Look up, and hail their leader and their chief.

[Barons express their consent.
Arden.
Barons, the soldier of your choice will strive
To prove him equal to supreme command,
And worthy of your trust. When I behold
The warlike spirit spread from man to man,
And wide the flame of liberty extend,
I hear, with joy, the trumpet's sound, which calls
The host to freedom, and the chiefs to fame.

Archbishop.
Then to the holy altar let us march,
And in the fane, which future times will reverence,
Renew our league, and seal our sacred bond.
[Gates of the chapel open. Procession to the altar. Barons kneel around. Archbishop administering the oath.
Now, at the Altar, in the name of Heaven,
And in the presence of th'Eternal Power,
You ratify your bond of peace! You swear
To march the champions of your native land,
Never to sheathe the sword, till you restore
The antient rights and liberties of England;
And, while you bind a tyrant by the laws,
To guard the glory of the British crown!

Barons.
This, in the presence of High Heaven, we swear!