University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE, The Court. Time, Night. Supposed to be the Close of Queen Emma's Trial, by the Peers of England.
Enter Goodwin, Harold, Tostie, Swaine, and Girth.
Goodwin.
The day is spent, and England's records hold
Its circumstance unparallel'd, when Kings,
Trust e'en a Mother's virtue to report,
Throwing its essence on the casual act
Of blind purgation: where shall dow'rless maids,
Unjoyful widows, or the faithful wife,
Find shelter from detraction?—Furious zeal!
—Harold, heard'st thou sad Emma's trial?

Harold.
No:
The Peers were chiefly Normans, and my soul
Burns with strong fury when I see them wrest
The nation's statutes with o'er-weening pride,
Daring our hopeless Saxons.

Girth.
I beheld
The dauntless Emma, when she was arraign'd
For guilt with Alwine, Winchester's good Bishop;
Indignant scorn that labour'd but in silence,
Struck from her eyes on Canterbury's Lord;
Yet did her looks own a persuasive force
That melted ev'ry heart, but his, to pity;
One murm'ring sigh was heard around, the Queen
Alone was bless'd with fortitude of soul
Which seem'd to check each impious tongue; when summon'd
To answer to the court, she gently smil'd,
And said, bid Edward answer who hath made
Virtue subservient to external proof;
Emma, despises an appeal!—Her words,
Utter'd with sweet tranquillity, amaz'd
Th'attentive Lords; while looks of soften'd awe
Pursu'd her, as she bow'd and slow retired.

Goodwin.
How bore the worthy Alwine such a scene?

Girth.
Alwine, came next; his manly visage flush'd
With rosy hue, as he approach'd the court;
Yet when he gaz'd on Canterbury, words
Can never paint the language of his eyes!
Contempt, and rage, like two opposing pow'rs
That strive for mast'ry, seem'd to share his soul;
The former kept its influence: and he stood
Looking in shameless Canterbury's face,
While that bold prelate gave his accusation.
Then Alwine, with a steady piercing eye,
(As he would search the vile Archbishop's soul)
Ask'd him, if he had acted for his God:
In fine, King Edward's mother was condemn'd
To prove the ordeal-fire: with look compos'd,
Her son confirm'd her shame!

Goodwin.
Well,—'twere a fault
In Edward to oppose the Monks—

Harold
(interrupting).
A fault!

Goodwin.
—Their vow is chastity—
Their practice—

Goodwin.
Hush!
Nor whisper forth their frailties,—they are men—

Harold.
And must our England, still be made their prey?
No, leave King Edward to their bait; but save!
Oh, Father, save thy country!

Goodwin.
Raving boy!
What hope have I? Reflect what fate awaits
Thy gentle sister, should we wage a war
Against her husband.

Harold.
Her deep wrongs alone
Would nerve my arm; replete with blooming youth
She mourns an exile from King Edward's arms;
Because, forsooth, his confessor avows
That love, (tho' sanctified) dissolves the soul,
And drags her views from heav'n!

Tostie.
Oh, passive dupe!
So blind a bigot shall not reign!—To pray
Is not to rule, or to provide for England.
Awake, my Lord! nor perish 'mid the herd
Of sickly slaves who shake the chain and smile!

Goodwin.
Perish the tongue that dares to threat a father!
Did'st thou e'er find me slumb'ring when the voice
Of injur'd justice pierc'd the ear of honour?

Tostie
(aside to Harold).
Harold. Do thou address him.

Harold
(aside).
Fear me not—
My Lord, your daughter's blest—

Goodwin.
Good Harold, no!
Ah, no! I dare not say it—

Harold.
Make her so—

Goodwin.
How?

Harold.
Why—no more than this:—unking her husband.

Goodwin.
My son, we must not yield to private woe.
True, my Editha's gentleness of soul
Has blunted oft the edge of pointed grief,
And I had hop'd to spend life's silent eve
Amid the sweets of dear domestic bliss!—
The soft perspective's vanish'd; but her wrongs,
Nor mine, or thine, shall ever raise my arm
To plunge a guiltless nation deep in blood.
Already do the groans of lab'ring hinds
Make the winds heavy, while their troubles roll
Like billows to the foot of Edward's throne,
And dashing there, are lost in wide dispersion.

Harold.
How then will noble Goodwin quit himself,
While lost in torpid apathy he sees
His country struggling with her woes? Oh, think!
That pow'r like thine thrown out in action, wrests
The iron sceptre from a tyrant's hand;
And while it humbles him, preserves a kingdom.

Goodwin.
Only the evening rays of life are mine.

Harold.
Be thy last ray, equal to thy meridian!—
Can inactivity in thee be virtue?

Goodwin.
I know not that, nor can we oft determine
On what is virtue: yet I freely own
That when the poor Plebeans late were tax'd,
And out of means, nearly too scant for nature,
Were forc'd to clothe our troops, my fruitless tear
Dropp'd on the threshold of the wretched cot,
As their pale infants met me.

Harold.
Dare the worst:
Brave Tostie's fleet is now below the Nore,
Under the colours of rich merchants; troops
Are at this hour in Somerton, disguis'd;
While Mercia, secretly wears arms, the time
Excites ambition, and inspires the soul
With more than martial ardour! Can my father
Be deaf to gath'ring thunders?—his fond eye
Discerns Editha wretched—

Goodwin.
Painful thought!
What innocence and beauty did I give
To Edward's bosom, tho' he lightly wears it!

Girth.
This morn I saw her, ere the sun was ris'n,
In yon brown grove that stands behind the palace;
When, willing to be unobserv'd, I stoop'd
Beneath a thick-set holly.—There I heard
Her soft complaint, she wrung her hands and wept
Successless love, then loudly pray'd to heav'n,
That Edward's breast might own a mutual flame,
To make them ever blest.—

Harold.
I will not brook it!
Manhood, ambition, justice, glory, all
The brave dare own, conspire to warn us hence:
I'll to the West. Girth, stride thy swiftest horse,
And hie thee unto Coventry's strong Earl.
Tostie, thy fleet awaits thee. Swaine, no more
We'll meet, till at thy faction's head I see
Thy beaver rais'd.

Tostie.
Agreed,—upon thy sword
Swear not to fail; my strong impetuous soul
Eagerly waits revenge. Rise gloomy shades
Of heroes fall'n beneath our Saxon banners!
Here shall dread horror sate you! Come my brothers,
Swear ne'er to lag, or groan, or form excuse
Of pale untowardly humanity.

Harold.
Be calm my brother—valour is not prov'd
By sound, we need not swear, but thou may'st trust
Thy faith with us; mean while restrain thy passion.

Tostie.
So cool!

Harold.
E'en so—

Girth.
Hist,—yonder comes Editha;
Her widow'd bed is lonely, nor invites
To early slumber: restless, see she roves,
While the poor peasant sinks in gentle sleep.—
Stand by a while, and mark her.

Goodwin
(sighs).
Ah, my child!

[They retire.
Enter Editha, reading.
Editha.
Who finds content, tho' all are on pursuit?
Alas! I know not one: The splendid great,
With awful pomp, glide o'er the checquer'd scene,
Folding their arms athwart a wounded breast,
Still studious to conceal their pangs—Oh pride!
These are thy characters. The lab'ring clown
Nestles in sweet domestic joy; yet want
Oft breaks his downy slumber, ere the dawn
Hath rouz'd the world to gen'ral bus'ness.—Ha!
My father and my brothers up so late
In private conf'rence,—cease my busy fears!

(Goodwin, &c. come forward.)
Goodwin.
My lov'd Editha, why at this dark hour
So lonely wand'ring? Is it meet for Queens
To tread the court in joyless mood, while night
Sits on the world, with brooding wing, to nurse
The wretches of the day?—I fear me much
You are not happy.

Editha.
Banish ev'ry fear,
My tender father, that may cause you pain.
Is it for you to mourn a cureless ill,
Whose tongue was ever wont to plead the rule
Of stubborn fortitude? my infant soul
You early taught to regulate her wishes,
And if she must forego them,—yield with calmness.
Alas! I have no stoic virtue left;
But deeply mourn my blessings as they fly—

Harold.
Grieve not, my sister!

Editha.
Brother, sure my state
Is not less sad than Emma's.

Goodwin.
Grant it worse,—
King Edward is the cause!

Harold.
And Harold wears
A sword—

Editha.
Ha! to whose breast would'st thou direct it?
Beware! nor wound a guiltless man, misled
By information; 'tis his pious zeal,
His love of virtue, that has urg'd him on
Thus, to arraign thy sister's fame.

Goodwin.
Thy fame!—
Who hath misled him? What bold slave shall breathe
The air with me, who dares polute it thus
With his hot slander?—Answer me Editha,
And if thou lov'st thy husband, or thine honour,
Avow thy vile accuser?

Editha.
Wherefore start
With look of wild surprize? Have ye not heard
That Canterb'ry, in private, to the King,
Impeach'd my faith, when Emma was condemn'd?
My Edward is a foe to vicious deeds,
Treats me like what I seem in his pure eye,
And has forbade me his kind look forever!

Goodwin.
O, Nature, I would now be deaf!—and yet,
Shall I bear this?—

Tostie.
No,—for you bear it hardly.—
If you can bite your lip, draw in your wrongs
Upon the suffrage of a patient mind,
I am not for you;—but if my good Lord
Will join his faithful sons, we yet may scourge
This cold, this pious husband.

Editha.
Ah, my brother!
Talk not of vengeance. I may yet convince
My Edward of his error.—Wait the morn
And I will see him:—but I fear the Monks,
By whom he is surrounded; they command
His cool indiff'rence to Editha.

Goodwin.
Haste,
My child, to thy repose.—To-morrow brings
The dreadful punishment of Emma.

Harold.
Girth!
Let us away!—This is the pause of Justice.

Girth.
Tostie!—

Tostie.
Let ruin hold the revel high!
On! on! I'll follow.—Cheer thee, gentle sister,
Or bid me wear thy tears upon my sword,
Till it dissolve in red destruction.

Editha.
Wild,
And furious are thy looks! Hear Tostie—

Tostie
(to his Brothers).
Hence!—
Accept my love Editha.—You, my Lord,
We leave to pallid caution, and the groans
Of poor expiring freedom!

(Exit the Sons).
Goodwin.
In my breast
What anarchy and dark misrule prevail!
True,—we are slaves:—but liberty's strong act
Would press out myriads of defenceless souls!

(He pauses.)
Editha.
Why go they from you, my lov'd father?

Goodwin.
News
Of great importance summon them.

Editha.
Alas!
A most unusual heaviness is on me:
Would I had pass'd to-morrow!

Goodwin.
Why that wish?

Editha.
It will be dreadful.

Goodwin.
Right:—but dost thou fear
The burning ploughshares?

Editha.
No,—I only grieve
For Emma.—Ah, my Lord, she deeply feels!
The mind of woman is most finely wrought,
Pure, modest, self-denying; e'en when love
Demands a chaste return, unthinking man
Ne'er comprehend us.—Rudely urg'd are Queens
When vulgar voices may aloud pronounce,
They're virtuous or dishonour'd.

Goodwin.
Do not mourn!
If Edward was Religion's honest child,
Know filial piety would have restrain'd him,
Nor Emma e'er a guiltless victim proved
To public shame.

Editha.
He errs but from a sense
Of more than common virtue.

Goodwin
(smiles).
Hah!—my child,
I wish thee to retire.

Editha.
Adieu, my Lord.
Soon as the Sun shall gild the eastern hills,
I will attend you.

(Exit Editha.
Goodwin.
But thou'lt find me not.
I must away to Kent, where Tostie owns
A pow'rful party.—I could rail at Heav'n
That hath prolong'd my sorrows till my head
Would willing kiss the earth!—yet—shall I prove
A pale apostate to my country's cause?
No, virtuous glory I will still adore!

(Exit.
Scene changes to the Arch-bishop of Canterbury's Palace, discovers the Archbishop at a Table perusing a Paper.
Canterbury.
Thus far his Holiness the Pope's deceived,
Who bade me act with justice; in this Bull
The name of royal Emma meets a blot.
To recommend our sanctity, the King
With furious zeal applauds, and thus exalts
The Church's sov'reign pow'r.—His grants are large;
His faith most wond'rous; which our busy Monks
Convert to proper use. He is our tool,
And, with him, on his Holiness the Pope
We mean to work for benefit.—'Tis morn;
Why comes not Father Lodowicke? I sent
A mournful scroll, pleading for Alwine's life,
To him, conjuring all the Priests to sign.
Edward denies them nothing: I would gain
The Bishop's pardon, lest my act should wear
A tint too sanguine for the eye of Mercy.
Enter Lodowicke.
Welcome my friend! Well—quickly say, how sped
Thy mild petition?

Lodowicke.
O—as we could wish.
King Edward paus'd, then, turning to the Priests,
Demanded if with Justice he might spare
The life of Alwine? With a piteous groan
They rais'd their eyes to Heav'n, then cross'd themselves,
And faintly sounded “No.”

Canterbury.
Horror! was this
My wish?—Ye blinding hypocrites, away!
You've all conspir'd against me, while I hop'd
To raise your pow'r o'er royalty itself.
But I will to the king, confess myself
Mislead by you, whose craft would foil the devil.
And in return a miracle I'll teach,
More than ye dare, ye knaves! and that is Truth.
Begone!

Lodowicke.
I will, when I have told my errand;
As yet, I've listen'd to thy rage.

Canterbury.
What hope
Can'st thou afford?—Your voices did confirm
The Bishop's death.

Lodwicke.
When Edward had pronounced
The name of Justice, could a Priest deny it?
That were imprudent honesty. Each smil'd
In secret on the other; waved the claim
Of Justice, and convinc'd the godly King
He could not save, but by the rule of Mercy.

Canterbury.
Convenient shift!—thou hast reviv'd me.—Well,
He did forgive him:—speak—

Lodowicke.
He did: but paused;
While o'er his cheek a blush stole gently—prove,
Said he, that Mercy may acquit a man:
May it not also save a weaker woman?

Canterbury.
To that—

Lodowicke.
We answer'd no: bade him reflect
Thro' every age it had been our chief care
To rule the thought of Woman: keep her chaste.
To that sole end, gave her no other merit;
But held the threat of Heav'n, the flame of hell,
And world's contempt, up to her frighted sense,
If once she dar'd Man's free example. More
In policy we spake—that kingly leagues,
Order of government, and social ties,
Depend on woman's faith.—Thus we harangued:
Concluding, that one fair apostate fall'n,
If publicly reprov'd, might save a million.

Canterbury.
If Emma to your monastry be sent,
With all her treasures, it will be enrich'd
With vast endowments, and your order meet
Most superstitious rev'rence from the people.
Editha too, perhaps, may be your guest:
For Edward is so scrupulously pious,
That he forsakes her, and in constant pray'r
Spends the long eve.—Some hints I've lately giv'n him,
Which have alarm'd his fears. Thou must begone,
Summon thy solemn order, and attend
On Emma's trial.

Lodowicke.
Where's the Saxon Earl?

Canterbury.
Goodwin—I know not: we are both at odds.
He checks my glory, and I hate him.—Time
Forbids our further conf'rence.

Lodowicke.
Thro' the vale
That lies this side our monast'ry, this morn
I saw young Harold posting toward the Court,
His horse did champ the bit with wearied jaw,
Nor seem'd to speed with Harold's wish.

Canterbury.
The King
Hath sent to Goodwin; he, with all his sons,
Must soon attend us:

Lodowicke.
By the hour of twelve,
All may be ready.

Canterbury.
Be thou strictly warn'd,
If near the King, to move with solemn pace;
Say little, keep thy hand upon thy breast,
Thine eye bent to the earth; and should he speak,
Preach thou of purity, of self-denial,
Of patience founded on strong faith, that keeps
Religion's votaries humble.

Lodowicke.
Fear me not,
Untainted minds thro' Truth's fair medium gaze,
Nor aught discern, but loveliness in Nature:
Craft wearing holy semblance must deceive.

[Exit Lodowicke.
Canterbury.
Now will I sting the soul of Goodwin! tear
His lov'd Editha from his fond affection!
That he is proud, insulting, and e'en honest,
Yields to me much convenience. To what purport
Should Foxes ply their cunning with each other?
No:—trail the Lion, fasten on his firmness,
Straighten his toils, till wearied he give o'er,
And e'en in dying, scorns his wily foe!

[Exit.
SCENE the Court.
Enter Goodwin and Servant.
Goodwin.
Be ev'ry horse prepar'd within the hour;
I go in haste to Kent.

Servant.
They shall my lord.

[Exit Servant.
Goodwin.
Edward, thou art secure; but I will chase
Sleep from thy pillow, till thou dost confess
How highly thou hast wrong'd this mourning land;
Extortion leaves each subject half a meal,
Shrieking o'er ev'ry roof: the shiv'ring hind,
Pinch'd doubly by the winds and pallid want,
Reluctant feeds the lazy priest. O Heav'n!
Are these man's righteous dealing? And may kings
Bring thus a boasted off'ring at the cost
Of poor defenceless misery?
Enter Harold.
Why my son
Art thou return'd?

Harold.
To guard thee to thy friends:
Swaine brings on Oxford, Somerset, and Berkshire,
The men of Gloster, and of Hereford;
My pow'rs are rais'd in Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk,
In Huntingdon, and Berkshire; nothing waits
But noble Goodwin.

Goodwin.
Where is Tostie?

Harold.
Safe
On board our fleet.

Goodwin.
His temper's fierce, my son:
Look well to his wild fury, lest he force
The rage of war too far: my fellow-subjects
Must be preserv'd, not made our victims.

Harold.
Heav'n!
Deal thou my father's spirit to my brother,
And he shall never err. My gen'rous sire,
I've pleasing news—Young Leofwine, thy son,
From Bristol comes, to clasp thee in his arms.

Goodwin.
My blooming boy! his hardihood shall make
An old man brave: now youthful fire is mine—
And ardour, be it ne'er so transient deem'd
In souls like Goodwin's, yet illumes the path
Which soon must end.

Harold.
Ah! pause, my much-lov'd father!
Far be that hour!—thy speech to Harold's ear
Is mingled fame and death—

Goodwin.
So I would have it;
For he who dares divide them, nought deserves
But Proteus-like opinion, when the wind
Of praise sits fair for fools. Then know, my Harold,
The plaudit of the croud I scorn!—my soul
Shall find content in self-applause.

Enter Messenger.
Messenger.
My Lord,
The king desires your presence.

Goodwin.
Where is the king?

Messenger.
Preparing to attend queen Emma's trial—
Fix'd on the pavement near the abbey.

Goodwin.
No;
Thy message cannot be for me.

Messenger.
Yourself,
With all your noble sons, are summon'd.

Harold.
Hence,
And say my spurs are dull.

Goodwin.
Or mildly say,
Goodwin is busy playing with his hawk.—
We will not come.

Messenger.
My lords, I may not bear
An answer so irreverent.

Goodwin.
What soft tale
May we place on thy servile lip?—Away!
Our state admits no parley—We will come
As time and humour suit us.

[Exit Messenger.
Harold.
This will work.
We must away—our challenge soon will sink
Deep in the ear of Edward.

Goodwin.
By yon sun,
I will not sleep till Edward turn his ear
To the complaint of England. Private woe
Spreads not a gen'ral malady; and we
Must see Editha pine, through lengthen'd hours,
In grief we may not notice; but the wrongs
Of this much-injur'd land shall have redress,
Batt'ring the soul of Edward till her pow'rs
Dissolve 'mid hideous ruin. On my boy!
Thy youth shall see a fair meridian—yet
May Goodwin teach thee how to bravely die.