University of Virginia Library

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.