University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Crichton, Livingston.
Crichton.
Give you joy, my Lord!
Of the deliverance—This stretch of pow'r
The world will loudly blame; that we must bear,
And can, if both unite; on this depends
Our lives, our fortunes, all we hope or fear.
I blush to own, that jealousies and doubts,
The whispers of designing men, the voice
Of busy faction, hath too often broke
The sacred tie of friendship and expos'd
Us and the State to danger. Hence be doubt
Of one another banish'd. On the faith
Of men and christians, let us jointly swear,
To stand or fall together—Witness heaven!—

Livingston.
Heav'n is not of our party—Blood for blood.

Crichton.
What means my Lord!—

Livingston
, taking no notice of Crichton.
“Hereafter—ay hereafter”—
Ha! thither move their corps!—Let me observe
The poor procession—Not a friend to mourn!—
No blazon'd ensigns!—No inscription boasts
A long descent!—Not even a servant here!—
O greatness! greatness!—vanity! and dust!—
Here lay them down a while—This, this was Douglas!—
Where now the sparkling eye, the rosy cheek,
The ruddy lip?—Pale! hideous! all besmear'd
With blood and dust!—To-morrow, and to-morrow,—
And then another comes—And last of all,
Death and a long account!—O save me heav'n!
The ghost of Douglas, awfully serene,
Hath fix'd its eyes upon me!—Now it frowns:
Then shoots its piercing eye through all my frame,
Points to the headless trunk, and smiles contempt!—
'Tis gone! it soars aloft!—

Crichton
, (aside)
While reason sleeps,
Thus, ever-waking fancy to the mind
Presents her magick glass—Distorted forms,
Hobgoblins, elves, pale fear, and blooming hope,
In wild succession pass—Mean while the soul,
Or grasps at shadows, or as vainly starts
At unsubstantial ills. Indulg'd too long,
These superstitious fancies cloud the mind;
Absorb the flame of reason, and involve
The soul in darkness. If he thus should talk—

[A soft knock at the door, Livingston looks wildly about]
Enter a Servant.
Servant.
The King, my lords, complains he is not well;
And cries incessantly. Thrown on his couch,
He often calls on Douglas; beats his breast;
Then lifts his eyes to heav'n and wrings his hands.

Livingston.
His guiltless hands! O heav'n were mine as pure!—

Crichton
, to the Servant.
Fellow retire!—I'll wait upon the King.
[Exit Servant.
My Lord you dream! or if awake, give hints
Of what I ne'er suspected.

Livingston.
Hints, my Lord!—

Crichton.
If Douglas justly fell, to you the State
Owes the deliverance. If your private views
Have push'd you on to this—

Livingston.
O heav'n and earth!—

Crichton.
Those exclamations pass for nought, my Lord,
Who sign'd the warrant? Who in pow'r supreme
Directed every step? Who in the house
Accus'd my Lord of Douglas?

Livingston.
Satan blush!
And own thy self outdone, nor more pretend
Superior craft, or impudence to man.
Thy wretched tool I was, tho' first in pow'r:
This well thou know'st—

Crichton.
Some rest may do you good,
Your late disorder is not quite gone off.
[Exit Crichton.

Manet Livingston.
Thus have I lost my peace!—Alas for what?
Delusive dreams, air bubbles that arise
Upon the varying wave of fancy's sea—
Farewel! my flatt'ring hopes—What right have I
To look for truth in him, myself so false.
O curst ambition! whither hast thou led?
To guilt! to horror! these are thy rewards!
I dread to be alone!—O conscience! conscience!
Thou gloomy tyrant of the guilty mind,
Where can I fly from thee, or how divert
Thy dire fore-bodings?—O the happy days!
When thou with gentle voice lull'd me to rest,
And made my slumbers sweet—Alas how chang'd!
Nor future days nor nights have joys for me!

[Exit.